A War Apart
by Sigcius
Summary: Without a common enemy, the Four Great Nations draw new lines of battle against one another. A lieutenant, his cohorts, and the Orange Star COs must face new enemies and old friends, as well as their own fears and doubts. COMPLETE.
1. The End

The End

A black-clad soldier scrambled on all fours, kicking up dust and dirt. His breath sounded odd within his enclosed helmet, fast and uncontrolled. Panic clearly gripped him. He managed to prop himself on one knee, ready to sprint-

_Crack!_

A single gunshot sounded dully in the open air. The soldier collapsed, howling in pain, blood patching the fabric over his right shin. A few gargled words were drowned out by the moans of agony that sounded from behind his gas mask. His rifle was yards away, discarded in a foolhardy attempt to surrender, half-obscured in the swirling sandstorm. A hopeless endeavor, but he crawled for it anyway. A stained streak of red soil followed in his wake.

Footsteps crunched in the dirt behind him. Just one set, but the soldier did not care. He was far too focused on his rifle and his pain and his broken leg. Anything to avoid death, anything-

A boot slammed into his rib cage, but at this point all the soldier could do was sob quietly. The boot came again, harder. And again. Whether the intention behind the blows was to roll him over or inflict pain was not clear, but they achieved both. A final strike easily shattered several ribs. The soldier's whimpers sounded strange through the mask, like an old gasping engine struggling for life.

The boot's owner stood over him, pistol hanging in his right hand. The gunman squatted, light brown khakis spotted with patches of dirt and blood. An orange lieutenant's insignia hung from the left breast pocket of his once-white shirt. Very informal. But so was beating a helpless enemy soldier for no discernable reason.

The gunman's brown eyes squinted in the dusty wind. The lifeless eyes of the soldier's mask bore no emotion, but his pain was evident. He no longer sobbed or squealed, but his breathing was heavy and erratic. He clutched at his wounded leg.

"Please… please…"

Dark brown, almost black hair obscured the gunman's eyes for a moment, but he brushed it out of the way. "Why?"

"Just… please, don't… don't kill me. I don't – I don't -"

"Not that," the gunman cut him off. "Why this?" He looked up for a moment, as if he were watching something on the far horizon. "Why did you do this?"

"I didn't… I mean… please, don't…"

He looked back down at the soldier and scooped up a handful of sand-colored dirt. Dry, no moisture at all. Then, slowly, he tipped his hand and poured it over the soldier's face. "Why would you do this? To my home? Bleed it so completely of life?"

"I was just following-"

"Don't give me that shit!" The black-clad soldier sobbed again. "Don't tell me you were just_ following orders_!"

"Please," the soldier repeated. "I've got a family, see? I'm just a – a - a grunt!" He reached up to his mask and, with shaking hands, began to remove it.

_Crack!_

The soldier jolted and lay still. A neat hole decorated his helmet. The mask was only partially removed, enough to reveal his pale chin. The gunman clicked the safety of his pistol and holstered it. He reached down and brushed the dirt off of the dead man's face. A machine, that's what he looked like. Lifeless, and not simply because he was dead. A lifeless, soulless machine.

He replaced the mask, as if the sight of the man's face was bothersome. Then he stood, casually brushed off his khakis, and walked away. A wall of sand swallowed him up.

(())

"Lieutenant Jorn! Sir!" A young man, possibly in his early twenties, jogged through the encroaching dust storm, one hand planted on his orange helmet, the other balled in front of his face, clutching a piece of paper.

First Lieutenant Christoph Jorn strained to see who was calling him. It was only when the Orange Star infantryman moved within a few feet of the Lieutenant that he dropped his hand. He was maybe five-eight, a few inches shorter than Jorn. Christoph studied his face, the bent nose, the wide forehead, and dredged from memory a name. Sergeant Luthar. "Yes, Sergeant?" He was forced to half-yell. The dust storm picked up speed with each passing moment. Damn Black Hole for causing them.

"Been looking everywhere for you sir. Message came in from HQ – they want you back there pronto."

"How pronto is pronto, Sergeant?" Christoph had business to attend to, still. The Black Hole army was scattered and defeated, but hadn't been put down. It needed to be, like some ill, weak dog that could still bite. That was his duty, Lieutenant Christoph Jorn's, and sometimes he dared to think he relished it. Wasn't the conduct an officer should have, but at this point no one gave it a second thought, if they even knew that was his mindset. Everyone was only too happy to finally be rid of Black Hole, and no one cared how the remnants were cleaned up.

Unless HQ cared. Maybe that was why they were requesting his presence. HQ was a good seventy miles southeast. Easy trip by helicopter, but there were precious few of those available.

Sergeant Luthar unfolded his paper and did his best to smooth out the wrinkles, despite the wind. "They want you back there yesterday, sir," he yelled back. "There's a chopper waiting for you at the other end of base camp, but you might have better luck in an APC, with the way this weather is going."

Christoph extended his hand, receiving the crunched paper. He read it over. Something about "review" and his "duties". Impossible to tell now, with the sand storm kicking up. He started to move. "Let's go, get me to a vehicle. No sense in trying to fly in this storm, unless you've got that Yellow Comet CO on call."

Luthar turned and walked with Christoph. "Sensei, sir?"

"Yea, that's the geezer. Heard he's mighty good with air cav."

"Sir, remember back a month ago, when our base camp was gonna be parachuted on by Black Hole?"

Christoph squinted, and changed his course to what he assumed was the right direction. "Yea, what of it?"

"The choppers that blew 'em outta the sky – those were Sensei's."

Christoph nodded thoughtfully. "I'll be damned. If I ever meet him, remind me to give the old guy my thanks."

"Will do sir. By the by, if an APC is what you're looking for, sir, then I believe the Commander himself is here. You might try hitching a ride with his troupe."

The Commander? Here? Christoph couldn't think of a reason his CO would be with the platoon. But if he was indeed heading back to HQ, then Christoph would certainly attempt to find a seat in his company.

They walked together. Eventually faint shapes appeared in the wall of sand. The closest one was clearly a tank, of the medium variety. The best Christoph had on call – the new Neo- and Megatanks were scarce and reserved for the direct command of the COs. Christoph would have loved to get his hands on just a couple – especially the Neotanks. He'd seen them in action, and they moved as quick as a light tank but with all the firepower of a whole squadron. He supposed it made him just a little bitter that he wasn't important enough to get a few, but he did his best to not let it bother him.

"Sir?" Sergeant Luthar looked sideways at him, still doing his best to keep the wind out of his eyes. "What were you doing out there? Didn't you have an escort?"

Christoph mentally frowned, but didn't show it. "Don't worry about it. I was just cleaning up."

Luthar's brow wrinkled. He said nothing. "Cleaning up" was the shorthand for dealing with straggling Black Hole units, and "dealing with" was the shorthand for killing the ones that didn't surrender. Christoph supposed the term came from the general view of the Black Hole army – dirt. They were dirt that had ravaged this world of wars with even greater wars. And the Orange Star Army was just sweeping up the refuse.

Evidently the two were amidst a squadron, for more shapes crept up from the storm. Men and women ran frantically about, disappearing and reappearing in the sheet of brown, tying down tarps and covering equipment. Dirt would ruin a lot of the stuff if it got into the workings. A tank can't run on sand. Occasionally one would stop and throw Christoph a salute, if they bothered to notice him. He guessed he really didn't care if they did or not. The war was two months over, and right now they were all battling the elements.

It took them a good twenty minutes to find the helicopter, stationed away from the camp. The pilot shook his head when Christoph asked in the vain hope that he could fly it. Worth a shot. Maybe one day Orange Star would find its own Sensei or Eagle.

Christoph turned to Luthar. "Sergeant, if you don't hear back from me within an hour, I've left for HQ. Tell First Sergeant Morgan I'm leaving. _Do not_ try to move the tanks with this storm up. And tell Morgan-"

"Tell him what, sir?"

Christoph grinned. "Tell him there'll be no cards tonight."

Luthar chuckled and responded with a _yessir_ before jogging off. It was a good thing that those under Christoph's command felt comfortable laughing in front of him. That, along with the fact that they were _damn_ good at what they did. He hoped it was evidence that he was doing his job properly, that his men respected his leadership.

Musing over the possible implications of his exchange with Luthar, Christoph returned to the main body of the camp. He passed the medical tent and used it as a point of reference. About twenty feet forward, and a few strides to the right-

The command station was precisely where it should've been. Little more than a large tent decorated with the OSA seal, this was Christoph's temporary home away from home. Perhaps closer to an apartment, as he shared it with the other officers of his platoon. He unzipped the first set of entrance flaps, stepped in, and closed them shut before doing the same with the second set, slipping between the tarp sheets.

A strange aroma of coffee and cigar smoke permeated the dim interior. Two odors that should never go together, in Christoph's opinion, but he was used to it by now. A man and a woman were seated at a plain table covered unevenly with a blue, checkered cloth. The man was a tall, skin-and-bones fellow with a mass of curly blonde hair. He was dressed casually, blue jeans and an army shirt, absentmindedly shuffling a deck of cards.

The woman was every bit his visual opposite, about Christoph's height but darker skinned, her black hair bundled in a regulation knot on the back of her head. Her camouflage uniform completed her professional appearance. A half full cup of coffee rested on the surface in front of her, abandoned in favor of a newspaper from last week.

The lanky man glanced up briefly at Christoph's entrance but a moment later redirected his gaze to his cards. "Atten-SHUN. First Lieutenant in the house!"

Without bothering to look, the woman gave an informal salute. "Morning, sir."

"Morning Roma, Sepp." Christoph paused in his speech but walked past them. "Is it still morning?"

The woman named Roma flicked her wrist up. She looked at her watch. "I suppose it isn't anymore. Morning ended ten minutes ago."

"Excellent!" Another voice boomed from somewhere deeper in the tent. "That means I can have a drink!"

Cards flipped and Sepp shouted back. "You've been drinking since ten AM, Sig. Fooling no one, especially not the Lieutenant!"

Christoph couldn't help but grin, the recent memory of the Black Hole soldier pushed into some corner of his mind. He and his small collection of second lieutenants had formed an interesting relationship over the course of the last war. They'd all been shifted around when different units started taking casualties, and somehow ended up in one platoon. One very overstaffed platoon, with three second lieutenants and a first lieutenant. The platoon, however, was specialized and larger than most – a right Christoph had earned. His combined arms tactics had granted him a rare privilege among those of his rank. Instead of the standard forty-odd men, his had roughly eighty and an assortment of engineers and technicians. Someone needed to keep all those people in check.

Deliberately avoiding the topic at hand, Christoph scanned a second table next to the first and asked no one in particular, "Is there any coffee left?"

Still occupied by the newspaper, Romana Dubois offered an answer. "The pot is back with Sig."

There would be no getting out of this one. Christoph sighed and moved among several small desks before rounding a cot. A large barrel of a man with his back turned to Christoph was rummaging around an assortment of odds and ends on yet another fold-up table. He apparently found what he was looking for and turned, standing straight. At a little over six feet, as large as two men, and straight-up bald, Sigfried Lehmann vaguely resembled the Yellow Comet CO Grimm, but with a little less weight and without the tiny sunglasses. In one he held a small glass, and in the other a bottle of some caramel liquid. Considering the bottle's owner, it was most likely alcoholic, and against regulations. Not that Christoph cared. Seemed he didn't care about a lot of things nowadays, with the war done and gone.

"It's the Lieutenant alright!" Despite the fact that they were all lieutenants of some grade, Christoph possessed the unofficial title of "The Lieutenant". Sigfried shoved the bottle in his face. "Care for a glass?"

Christoph firmly pushed the intruding object away. "No thanks, Sig. Just looking for the coffee."

Sigfried, still beaming, jabbed a thick finger towards a pot. Christoph retrieved it, found a mug, and poured himself a cup of it. He didn't particularly like coffee, but the stuff was a lifesaver on the front, especially if one didn't drink or smoke. Calmed his nerves, though he'd forgotten why he needed that-

Oh. Right. The memory of the black-clad soldier barged into his thoughts again like some uninvited house guest. He took a large gulp of his drink. Cold. Black. Hated both. But his body loved the caffeine.

Sigfried had left to occupy a chair with his fellow officers, and Christoph backtracked to join them. Sepp's bony neck craned to look at him. "So Lieutenant, cards tonight still?"

He did not take a seat. "No, unfortunately. I've got something to do. HQ wants me." With his free hand he patted his pockets until he found the paper, but didn't remove it.

Sepp Lee whistled long and low. "Hoo boy! Gonna get panned, I can smell it already!"

Roma glared. "Hardly. If anything, they'd promote him."

"I know, I know! Jeez, can't even take a joke, can she, sir?"

He smiled again behind his mug. "Maybe you just can't handle our artillery officer, Sepp."

Flip-flip, the cards batted against one another. "Hah! I can handle just about anyone and anything." As if in response, the deck of cards lost their synchronization and spilled over the table. Roma grinned a rare grin. Sigfried let out a guffaw.

"Shit…" Sepp swept the cards together in a disorganized pile.

Sigfried downed a half glass of something strong. "In all seriousness, what's brass want from you?"

Christoph shrugged. "You got me. I really don't have a clue."

"Not one?" Roma asked, frowning.

"Not one." He looked her straight in the eye. Probably a bad idea. Roma had a knack for telling if someone was telling the truth or not. If word _had_ reached HQ of how he'd… personally attended the demises of several Black Hole soldiers, his career's future would certainly be in jeopardy.

But Roma went back to her paper. Sepp managed to return the cards to a status resembling order.

Christoph began, "Before I head off…"

Sigfried interrupted. "Whoa, you're leaving now, Lieutenant?"

He nodded and took another sip of coffee. "Yea, they wanted me yesterday, apparently. With the war two months over, you'd think they'd have fixed up the communications."

Sigfried returned the nod and gazed off somewhere. If Christoph hadn't known he'd been drinking, it would've looked like Sigfried had something important on his mind. He was an extremely intelligent man and brilliant tactician, but his alcohol problem had become worse during the conflict. Christoph supposed that was just how some men coped.

He looked at Sepp. The tall and thin man handled war with a sense of humor. Roma, he wasn't sure, but he guessed she bottled it up.

Or maybe Christoph was wrong. Maybe he completely misjudged all of them and their various methods. What did it matter now?

"You'll be taking an APC then, sir?" Roma asked.

"Yep. No way is anyone flying in this sandstorm." A thought occurred to Christoph, and he seized it. "I heard the Commander's APC is here. Maybe he's heading to HQ too."

"Oh hoh! Going to see the big man himself, huh? Sure you don't need a little liquid confidence for that encounter?" Sigfried once again offered the bottle, and Christoph once again gently declined.

"Like I was saying, before I head off – I have some parting orders."

Now all three paid very close attention. Sepp and Sigfried might act ridiculous at times, and Roma indifferent, but when it came to getting their jobs done, they were as disciplined as the troops of the famous Emperor Kanbei.

Christoph set his mug on the table before continuing. "Number one is, of course, to continue carrying out our current mission. Find any remaining Black Hole units, accept their surrender, or take them out if they don't see eye to eye with you.

"Second, Roma is in charge." This no one questioned, and for good reason. Roma had more leadership experience than all of them, barring Christoph, though she came close.

"Third, don't try moving the vehicles and equipment in this sandstorm. Nothing urgent enough to warrant an attempt at relocation should occur. If something does," he added, "follow standing procedure. Find the closest unit and group up with them."

"Yes sir," the three second lieutenants responded, not quite in unison. As if they possessed some uncanny ability to know when the conversation was finished, they returned to their respective activities; shuffling, reading, and drinking.

"Right then. See you all very soon, with luck." Christoph moved to exit, but stopped. He turned to the side table and picked up a small glass. "You know, Sig, I think I will take a swig."

Sigfried grinned wide. "Ah ha! I knew you would! I just knew it!" He poured some into Christoph's glass. Christoph raised it and, in one go, tipped it back and swallowed it all. Whiskey, very strong. He nearly burst into a hacking cough but managed to reduce his reaction to a sort of rasping breath. Sigfried gave him a couple pats on the back, though they did very little to clear his head.

"Right! Thanks, Sig. See you all later." And with that, he replaced the glass, turned, and made for the exit flaps.

Once outside in the blinding storm, Christoph spent a good ten minutes looking for a vehicle. And HQ wanted him _yesterday! _ Forty minutes had already passed and he wasn't even on the road.

He wandered, moving amongst a disorganized bunch of vehicles. APCs, recon units, medivacs; nothing was where it should've been. Wasn't going to be fixed anytime soon, either. Another APC loomed up in the brown – it looked no different from any other infantry carrier, but what little sense of position Christoph retained told him that it was the right one. That, and the gold star behind the OSA symbol. He banged on the door. The driver inside saluted and pointed to the back of the vehicle. Christoph nodded and returned the salute, wandered to the rear, and tried the side door. It opened. He entered.

As the door closed behind him, the low rumble of the APC engine overtook the weather – a nice change of pace. The storm was reduced to a high pitched whine. He looked about. A couple of warrant officers and infantrymen. One of the officers, a brown-haired woman, was closest, and he moved to speak with her.

"Excuse me, have you seen Commander Max around?"

The woman didn't bother to look up and jabbed a thumb at the front corner. Christoph turned. There, taking up the space of two seats was a rather large and imposing individual.

Cropped blue hair, a seven-foot stature, and what looked to be a ton of pure muscle were the traits that most noticed when they first laid eyes on Commander Max. Christoph's Commanding Officer, and he was damn proud to be under that command. Renown throughout the Army for his gung-ho manner and well-trained troops, Max had the unspoken title of Muscleman of Orange Star.

Now it was Christoph's turn to salute. He fully expected Max to tell him to "relax" or something similarly casual. He was correct.

"C'mon Chris, you know you don't have to do that around here. The war's over! Relax a little!" Max let out a single laugh; Christoph was certain it could have blown the doors off if it'd been just a bit louder.

He followed his orders and smirked. "Good to see you, Commander."

Max grinned his friendly grin and stood, tossing a folded magazine onto his former seat. His white muscle shirt strained but amazingly remained in one piece. Sitting he was hard to believe; standing it was borderline ridiculous how large Max really was. But it was just the right genes and the right exercise, Christoph supposed. He knew Max well enough that he didn't even consider the possibility the blue-haired giant used some sort of substance.

"Likewise. How've you been?" Max clapped a hand on Christoph's shoulder, and it nearly knocked the wind out of him. The Lieutenant coughed.

"Well enough. God, don't you realize you're twice the size of anyone in the battalion, you big lug? Careful next time."

Max laughed again, with the same powerful effect as before. "Sorry. I guess I don't realize my own strength!"

Christoph jokingly punched him in the arm. "Bull! I know damn well you do it on purpose."

"Sure, sure. What's the news from the outside world?"

"How long have you been cooped up in here that you need to ask me that?"

Max stretched out his arms. "I figure I've done enough work during the last _three_ wars back-to-back that I can take a little break. Besides, there's not a lot to do, is there? The Black Hole freaks are done for. No way they're coming back from this one." For effect he punched one fist into his other hand with a _slap_ – and what an effect it was. Probably could've KO'd three good men with that.

Christoph ran a hand through his hair. Tiny grains of sand sprinkled to the floor. "I guess. You're right, there's not much to do." Not formally, anyhow… "Whatever. There's another sandstorm outside, if you hadn't noticed. That'll stop us for… God knows how long. Supplies are fine, the men are doing alright, I suppose. They're just happy it's all over."

Max nodded. He was clearly waiting for more. Max might act casual and carefree, but no one could say he wasn't an informed CO. He knew Christoph had received a message.

"I got this just now from one of my sergeants," Christoph stated while retrieving the paper from his pocket and handing it to Max. "I didn't get a chance to read it because – well, yea."

The paper looked silly in Max's big paws. He scanned it, apparently not bothering with the details.

Then, for a moment, just a brief moment, his eyes changed. Christoph wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been watching at the right time. Something in the message had provoked a reaction from him. Was that good, or bad?

But Max retained his friendly demeanor and returned the letter. "Hey, come on into my office. I've got a couple things I want to talk to you about."

They took two steps to the inner door that separated the cabin from the infantry hold. Max lumbered in first, forced to turn sideways and duck his head to fit in the door frame. As this was the Commander's APC, the hold was cut in half to give the CO a private space to work in. It would be clear to anyone who entered, however, that the normal definition of "work" did not apply to Max. Another few panels of tinted glass separated the driver's cabin and the office, the panes assorted with posters, calendars, and even a mini basketball hoop. One corner sported a cluttered desk and overstuffed chair, while the opposite had a similar chair and a television set. The desk was half covered in paperwork, half newspaper comics. Some well-known wrestler glared angrily from his poster on the wall behind Max's workspace. It was like any college student's room. Part of Max probably still lived in college.

Max did everything but ease himself gracefully into his chair; he rounded his desk and immediately plopped himself down, propping his size-ludicrous feet on the workplace. It creaked as his tree-trunk legs settled onto the wood. If it hadn't held up for a year already, Christoph would've given the desk another week before Max crashed his legs right through the boards and into the APC's metal floor.

But as soon as Christoph closed the door, Max's expression changed. It went from being friendly to very, very serious. Max was never very, very serious, unless something was very, very wrong.

"Sit down, Lieutenant." Shit. Max used his rank title. Definitely not good.

Instead of simply spilling whatever he had to say, though, Max rapped on the cabin panel three times. Two knocks responded. A moment later, the engine revved, and the APC began to move.

"I won't play you for a fool, Chris. Something's up. Something bad."

Christoph swallowed. How'd he know already? "Sir? I…" he trailed off.

Max's reaction was not what he expected. He cocked his head. "What?"

Damn it. He'd misjudged. Max had no idea what Christoph had done, alone, away from camp – he'd never play one of his subordinates like this. Too late, though. He'd have to drop the facts. "If this is about my actions, then…" Damn it! What was he supposed to say? Deep breath. "Then I can't say I regret them."

Now it was Max's turn to be confused. "What actions, Lieutenant?"

Christoph's face screwed up in an expression even he couldn't place. God knows what it looked like. "I executed a Black Hole soldier."

Max adjusted his seat. "So? That's half of what we're doing. 'Cleaning up'. Can't say I like it any more than you, but that's our job."

"Nosir, this one wasn't 'cleaning up'. This was one who tried to surrender."

There was a slow intake of breath; not from surprise, but maybe a little from frustration. Max raised one hand to rub his eyes with a forefinger and thumb. He exhaled. No response. Silence crept into the already cramped office, making it feel twice as small as it already was.

Finally, after what seemed to be an excruciating amount of time, Max looked him straight in the eye. He spoke quietly. "Did anyone see you do it?"

"Nosir."

"You sure?"

"Yessir."

Max cracked his knuckles, again biding his time. Another CO probably would've folded their hands, or made some similar gesture. "I'm not going to judge you, Chris. This is your homeland, not mine. I know what happened to your town." A lot happened to his town. "I'm not gonna pretend like I know what's going through your head now, or what was going through it during the fighting. Just…"

Christoph strained to listen, as if it would make whatever Max was going to say more profound.

"Don't do it again. Ok? I'm glad you made sure no one saw you do it, but still. Executing captured soldiers isn't gonna send the men home with happy memories, you got me?"

"Yes sir. I've got you." He relaxed. Even with Max, a good friend and fair commander, Christoph wasn't certain he'd make it out of that room without an informal demotion or punishment. He was lucky, and lucky to be under the jurisdiction of Max's reasonable judgment.

"I'm also glad that you came forward with this, even if you didn't do it on purpose." A small grin returned to the Commander's face.

Christoph ventured with a weak noise, halfway between a breath and a laugh. "I'm glad I did too, sir." No he didn't. Goddamnit, lying again in front of his CO and good friend. He tried to comfort himself with the idea that Max didn't know what it was like to lose his hometown. Sure, Christoph's family evacuated in time, but all those people that didn't…

Once again, however, Max's expression solidified. "Let's throw that out the window, for now. There's something really important going down, and from the looks of your letter, you're in on it."

The letter! Right, he'd never gotten a chance to read it. Where was it? Still in his hand. He uncrumpled the note and looked at Max.

"Go ahead."

And so he read it once, and once again. Christoph frowned. It was extremely vague, and didn't offer any real clues as to why he was being summoned to HQ. Finishing the last few lines, he looked up to Max again. "Sir… Max… what's this about? You looked like you had some idea…"

Max had produced a toothpick from somewhere and was playing with it. "It's pretty base, isn't it? Doesn't tell you a whole lot. An urgent letter from HQ, that wanted you there yesterday, and it doesn't tell you what for?" He removed his feet from his desk and leaned forward to prop both elbows on it. "Take a guess. You're one of _my_ subords Chris, you can figure it out."

Christoph's mind worked for a few moments, and came to a very simple solution. He felt himself adopting the same appearance Max took when they first entered the office, and he assumed he felt the same emotions. "Something's up, something bad. You already said it, and there wasn't any more to say than that. Something bad, like something…"

"…to do with the whole country. Right."

Christoph folded his arms. "Black Hole bad?"

Max leaned back again and shrugged. "I dunno. I guess we'll figure it out when we get there."

"But why would they request me? I'm just a Lieutenant. You're the CO, the battalion commander. Obviously they asked for you."

Max just stared at him, not responding, and for the second time that day, Christoph was certain he detected a change in the CO's blue eyes. There was something else, something Max wasn't willing to tell him just yet, and probably wouldn't until they arrived. And from the speed of the APC, that arrival probably wouldn't come for another two hours.

No, make that three. He'd forgotten that bureaucracy waited for them at headquarters.


	2. Revelations

Four and a half hours after Christoph had left the field, he sat in an unremarkable waiting room. Three hours? It had been foolish to assume they'd make it back to HQ and through security in three hours. The trip had taken two, and he'd spent the last 180 minutes undergoing background checks, identification, and questioning by at least three different security officers. Wasn't like it was new to him, though, or surprising. The area around HQ was still considered a war zone, out to about twenty miles. Most pockets of Black Hole resistance had been cleared, but brass wasn't taking any chances. The whereabouts of the enemy commanders were unknown, and they'd pulled underhanded tricks often enough during the war that HQ's paranoia wasn't completely unfounded.

The remainder of the APC ride had been relatively uneventful. Mostly, Christoph updated his commander on the current front situation, to whatever extent his knowledge was new. Once they'd arrived, of course, Max parted ways with his Lieutenant and used his authority and influence rather than his brawn to get past all the red tape. Christoph had no idea where Max was now.

And so after an excruciating two and a half hours, here Christoph sat, in a set of camo-pattern, freshly pressed and, more importantly, _clean_ officer's clothes, his stained cargo pants and shirt stowed away somewhere deep within the bowels of headquarters itself.

From without and within, Omega Land HQ was rather unremarkable. The whole compound consisted of several two-story buildings with a larger six-level one in the center. The center building mainly housed offices, but also held the quarters for the top Omega Land commanders, most notably Commander Rachel. Younger than Christoph and holding the de-facto rank of Commanding General, Rachel was a pristine example of what considerable skill and nepotism could perform in combination. No one doubted she'd originally received her position of Commander of the Omega Land Allied Nations because of her ties with Nell, but at the same time no one could say she didn't work to deserve it. Her efforts during the last war undoubtedly brought the allies to victory. Christoph had never met her, but her reputation for excellence was known throughout the armed forces.

Christoph mused over her relatively young age. She was perhaps twenty or twenty one. Christoph was twenty-four. The thought made him feel old and under-ranked, but knew he was just the opposite. He was still riding his physical and mental peak, which boosted him through the grades with reasonable speed.

His mind wandered. Christoph hardly noticed people milling back and forth in the waiting room. They moved between the hall and various offices, shuffling papers and manila folders and talking amongst themselves. Christoph's orders were to wait here. For who and what, he did not know, other than he was most likely there to answer his summons. He hoped to God the letter wasn't bad news.

The hallway door opened and closed once more, but whoever entered did not continue into an office. Christoph snapped back to attention, looking to see if, finally, someone had been sent to retrieve him.

The newcomer was a slim young woman, about Christoph's height and perhaps equal to him in age. Her distinctive red hair was cut cleanly and fell to her shoulders, bangs propped by a dark green sweatband. She was clad in green military khakis, a white top, and brown combat boots, all immaculately clean as if her outfit was standard military attire, which it was not. The Army was fairly lax on dress code. Christoph quickly scanned her outfit looking for any clues as to her rank, and spotted a small insignia hanging from her brown belt. Lieutenant Colonel.

She glanced about the room as if there were others waiting – there were not. Then, finally, her eyes rested on Christoph. She stared at him for a moment, one hand adjusting a white cloth band around her left wrist. Christoph met her gaze and stood, saluting.

"First Lieutenant Christoph Jorn?" she asked simply.

"Yes ma'am." He hoped to high heaven that she wasn't one of those female officers who preferred a different title. She didn't seem to react any which way to his use of address, however.

She returned the salute, relieving Christoph, and took a couple strides forward while extending one hand. "I'm Commander Sami, OSA Special Forces."

Sami, of course. Another virtual legend in the Orange Star Army, right up there with Max and the youngster Andy, fundamental in the first victory over Black Hole forces a few years ago. Christoph briefly received the offered handshake, just long enough to feel sociable. "It's an honor, ma'am."

She raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of me, then?"

He tendered a friendly smile. "Of course, ma'am. Colonel Max is my CO, and I understand you are good friends with him." After a moment, he added, "Even without his word, however, most everyone has heard your name and your experience during the Black Hole wars."

Commander Sami nodded. "Interesting to hear, but flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant," though she did not say it with any negativity. "Regardless. I've been instructed to bring you upstairs."

This was it, then. "Upstairs" was not merely a literal term, but also held the connotation that he was being brought right to the brass. _Holy hell_, what had he gotten himself into? Had he even _done_ something to warrant this sudden audience? He wasn't even sure if the situation would look favorably upon his vocation.

Christoph silently prayed he didn't reveal any of the emotions swirling within his head. "Yes ma'am."

She turned and exited. Christoph followed, walking out of the waiting room and down the hall. Commander Sami forwent the elevator and instead briskly took the stairs up two flights, opened a door, and continued down yet another hallway. Christoph tagged along, doing his best to match her pace, though it was clear she was in better physical shape than he – not an inconsiderable feat, but also not unexpected from the Special Forces officer.

He'd seen photos of the various COs from the three Black Hole wars, and decided the redheaded commander looked a bit out of place without her usual rifle. Perhaps she felt the same way, for the Commander occasionally fidgeted with her cloth wristband.

The pair walked about halfway down the fourth-floor hall before the Commander slowed and angled right. She turned the handle of an intricate, unmarked wood-and-glass door that clearly flagged the room within as far more important than its counterparts. Holding it open, the CO said, "After you, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, ma'am." They passed through another room, oddly similar to his previous waiting room, though this one was adorned with various paintings and potted plants. Not overly decorative, but enough so that it got the point across: it didn't belong to just another two-bit officer. The question was, who did it belong to?

Commander Sami rounded him and pointed to a door opposite to the hall. "There you are, Lieutenant." Christoph breathed in slowly but quietly, attempting to keep control of his nerves. The CO apparently noticed, but she didn't say anything. Good or bad, good or bad? Christoph wondered if he was overanalyzing his superiors' every action.

For the umpteenth time that day, he adjusted his camo uniform and quickly inspected himself to even out any wrinkles he could find. Then, he walked to the door, turned the knob, and entered.

The inner office contained similar decorative items, oversized paintings, and simple foliage. A blinds-covered window took up a good portion of the far wall, but one feature stood out. A large oaken desk dominated the center and almost overwhelmed the person sitting behind it.

Female. Red jacket, short blonde hair. Red cap with a gold star sitting on the desk's surface. She was small, though exactly how small was hard to tell while she was sitting. Christoph quickly analyzed her as he did with anyone important he met, and came to a rapid conclusion.

Commanding General Rachel. The top of the top in Omega Land. His stomach did a few flips and his heart strained as if seizing up. This encounter would end up either very fortuitous or extremely harmful for his army status. One was not summoned to an audience with the Commanding General for tea and biscuits.

Luckily, Christoph's instincts took over and he snapped to attention, saluting once more. "First Lieutenant Christoph Jorn, ma'am."

Rachel looked up from a pile of documents. She smiled. Oh, thank _God_. "At ease, First Lieutenant." Christoph folded his hands behind his back. A smile from the top brass was far more than he could've honestly hoped for.

He heard movement behind him; the door opened again, and footsteps padded on the carpeted floor. He glanced briefly to his right. Commander Sami slipped behind him and took a seat in the corner of the room.

Someone coughed to his left, and he dared another glimpse. In the other corner was Commander Max himself, casually resting his head against one fist, the same elbow propped against his chair's armrest. He raised a hand casually. "Afternoon, Chris."

"Afternoon sir." At least there was one familiar face in the room. Everyone appeared welcoming enough, but this was certainly no time to relax. Unless…

"Please relax, Lieutenant," Commander Rachel said. "We're all friends here, and anyone on good terms with Max is on good terms with me." Well, if his orders were to relax, then he would. "Take a seat." She motioned to an armchair positioned directly in front of her desk. Despite the CG's gregarious conduct, Christoph felt extremely vulnerable as he moved to sit in the offered accommodation. Surrounded by three officers that outranked him by at least three grades, one of which was effectively the Commander-in-Chief of Omega Land forces, he didn't exactly classify his reaction as superfluous. It felt like some sort of inquisitorial trifecta, needles and pokers ready to make him break down into tears and spill his proverbial guts all over the floor.

But Christoph steeled himself and settled into the armchair. As he did, the blonde-haired CG stood and reached for a string hanging from the window behind her. "After reading Max's reports, Lieutenant, it's interesting to finally put a face to the name. I've heard quite a bit about you from Max already!" she said in a rather peppy tone, all while pulling the window string and allowing sunlight to flow into the room. Whatever sunlight there was, at least. Christoph noted out of habit that overcast weather dominated the sky.

"Thank you, ma'am." He left his response at that.

Rachel finished her task and returned to her swiveling seat. Her smile was still there, not plastered or fake, but definitely genuine. It was as if she possessed an aura of simple truth to her, leaving an impression upon Christoph that permitted him to extend just a bit of trust. Maybe he'd make it out of here alive.

She pursed her lips momentary and tilted her head just a few degrees. "But I can tell you're still nervous. I can't imagine why, however…"

_You can't imagine why? Really? _Was this girl the same Rachel that had commanded the Allied Nations? Defeated Black Hole? And she didn't know why he was nervous, sitting in an office with three superior officers and no explanation for his presence?

Christoph cleared his throat. "Well, ma'am, if I'm not stepping out of bounds by asking… why am I here? The letter I received was extremely vague in its intentions, and I was not given any additional information concerning my orders to return to headquarters."

For a moment, Rachel's expression adopted a look of mild confusion. She picked up a paper, her blue eyes scanning it before setting it down and looking towards Max's corner.

"Max. You… didn't tell him?"

Christoph copied her and craned his neck to look at his Commander, puzzled. Max sported an enormous grin. He simply shook his head.

Christoph looked back to Rachel, and she to him. The CG raised her eyebrows. "Well! I guess that duty falls to me then." She stood again, this time in a formal fashion. He quickly did the same, noticing that neither Max nor Sami followed suit, despite the fact that Rachel outranked them both. Regulation and policy were markedly unimportant here, it seemed, which only served to make Christoph feel more awkward.

She held out her hand. "It is my honor to inform you, First Lieutenant Christoph Jorn, that because of your exemplary conduct and initiative during the Omega Land War, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, effective immediately." The pleasant smile returned. "Congratulations."

Christoph felt frozen, overwhelmed, and most undoubtedly looked bewildered to those within the room. A promotion. Roma had been right. A promotion. Captain Christoph Jorn of the Orange Star Army. Weren't promotions supposed to be done in strict ceremony? At least for a rank as high as Captain? Sure, he'd gained rank before, but that'd been in the middle of a conflict where ceremony had no business being conducted. "I – well… thank you, ma'am," he managed to sputter. "Thank you very much." Somehow he willed his limb to move and accept her handshake, eyes still wide.

Commander Sami approached him from the corner, and Christoph received her congratulations as well. She smirked. "From what Max has said, you deserve it. Now it's my turn to determine if he was right." Whether or not she meant what she said, he didn't particularly care at the moment. He was simply relieved to be whole and intact, and still preoccupied with the notion that he would be leaving headquarters better off than he'd arrived.

And then Christoph felt a hand clap onto his shoulder. He turned to look. Max beamed down from his high stature, clearly amused with his clever games. "If I scared you half to death, Chris, you'll have to forgive me. I wanted this one to be a little different than all the times I've put you on the spot in the field."

"Well you certainly did! Jeez Max, I swear, if you ever do that again…" But Christoph laughed regardless. Tension flowed from every limb, leaving him with a lingering combination of both exasperation and respite.

Max's big hand patted him on the back. "Welcome to the club, Commanding Officer."

(())

The band of COs now numbered four. After Christoph's sudden promotion and the mild revelry that followed, Rachel assumed a more serious bearing. There was to be a meeting at 1800 hours for all Commanding Officers. The CG didn't act like someone who was overly serious, even concerning important matters, but whatever the meeting covered she apparently felt that emphasizing its gravity was worthwhile. The only piece of information she offered was this meeting was why his promotion had been so abrupt and informal.

Paperwork would wait until later. Christoph had about an hour to kill, and there was no question how he would spend it. He meandered into the officer's mess hall, tucked away in one of the smaller buildings on the compound. There was little else to do within the HQ grounds anyway, and his field diet of coffee and packaged goods wasn't easy on his stomach. Even foods reserved for ranked personnel weren't of great quality.

The cooks in charge were preparing for dinner, so only a self-serve line was available. Christoph proceeded to fix himself a cold cut sandwich. The meat looked fresh enough, certainly better than the tinned stuff he was used to. He spread on a couple different condiments and, without thinking, selected a generic-brand canned soda. Caffeine in a different guise. He couldn't escape it.

The mess hall was rather empty, even considering its small size. A few groups collected at one table or another. He shuffled restlessly back and forth, unsure of where to occupy himself, before noticing a familiar figure seated near the back. He breathed easy. God, what was he, some kind of school kid on the first day of class?

Commander Sami noticed Christoph's approach, knife and fork still working through some sort of steak in brown sauce. She nodded in greeting. "Afternoon, Captain."

Captain. That would take some getting used to. "Good afternoon, Commander. Permission to take a seat?"

She pointed her fork across the polished table. "Go ahead."

He set his plate down first and pulled out a chair – a chair, not a bench! - as she spoke again. "You know, Captain, you don't always have to be so damn formal around here," she told him in what he presumed was the most friendly means possible. "Loosen up a bit. Like Rachel said, we're all friends."

"Well, ma'am-"

"And you don't need to call me ma'am, either. I'll be honest with you, it makes me feel old." She speared a piece of steak and popped it into her mouth, evidently finished with what she had to say.

_Certainly outspoken_. One of the traits that many attributed to Commander Sami. Seemed that little tidbit rang true. "How's Commander, then?"

Sami nodded again. "Commander's fine." Perhaps in an attempt to dispel any foul mood she'd stirred up, she waved an imaginary strand of hair from her face and smirked. "Are you always this tight up in the field? Being stubborn with rules will get someone killed out there."

Christoph inhaled as he cut his sandwich in half. "Well, to be honest – no, Commander. I suppose I didn't expect such lax conduct from HQ is all. I guess I won't complain." He tried to loosen up, as she'd suggested, and found it difficult. Of course, his uniform. He set down the knife and worked at his collar, undoing the top button. Well, it was a start. "I could get used to it."

"You're part of the club now, like Max said. And from the looks of this meeting, you certainly decided to join at a bad time."

Feeling a bit more comfortable, Christoph feigned incredulity. "Like I had a choice, Commander. I didn't even know about my promotion until it happened!"

"Bull. If you didn't want to be promoted, you wouldn't have done so well during the war." Again, she used her fork as a digit, pointing it at Christoph accusingly. "I read your file. You did very well, for yourself and your platoon. You were even given special permission to have more than the standard forty men. Tanks _and_ mobile artillery, recons, the works."

He frowned out of surprise. "You read my file?"

"Of course I did." She set down her utensil and picked up her glass, taking a drink before returning to the conversation. "OSA COs have an interesting web of relationships. We work together more often than not. I had to see if you were material enough for the job." Sami fooled with her wristband absentmindedly, leaving what little remained of her steak untouched.

Christoph nodded. "And?"

She shrugged. "It looked like Max's choice was solid enough. Most promotions like this are the result of proper procedure, following orders, and 'exemplary conduct,' as Rachel put it. Few have actual combat experience, unless a war is happening or just happened. That's what you have, Captain. Combat experience. That's undoubtedly what coaxed my vote."

"Your _vote_, Commander?" Christoph asked. "I didn't realize the army was a democracy."

Sami laughed, apparently pleased with his little joke. She crossed her bare arms and set them on the table. "My _opinion_, anyway. I'm not a tank commander. I'm Special Forces. I know enough about moving steelbells around, but that really is Max's department."

"Right. Well, if it means anything, Commander," he said as he held one hand palm up, "thank you for your consideration. It's more pay for me." Christoph could get used to the idea of a casual command structure. His platoon was already organized under one.

His platoon. The thought of it struck him abruptly. Would they still be under his command? Did his promotion signal a straining of his friendship with Sepp? Roma and Sigfried? Sure, everyone around here said their hellos instead of saluting, but what was the standard for behavior between COs and subordinates?

"You're welcome."

Christoph picked up one of his sandwich halves and took a bite. Definitely much better than what he was used to. He nodded, appreciative of the taste. "You all certainly have some good grub here. That's another thing I wouldn't mind if it spoiled me."

But Sami's green eyes were still studying him. Her brow furrowed, as if she saw something she didn't like. Christoph paused mid-chew. "Yes, Commander?"

For a few moments, she didn't reply. In substitution, she delicately scratched an unseen itch on her lower lip. Seconds passed.

Finally, in a very low tone, she asked, "Have you ever killed a man, Captain?"

She couldn't possibly know what sort of impact those words had on him. A tremor rang down his spine. His neck flushed. He suddenly felt far too warm in his uniform. Slowly, he swallowed his food while preparing an answer.

Before he could, however, Sami added, "And I don't mean from three hundred yards, with a rifle or a tank round. I mean, have you seen the face of someone you've killed? Maybe as you did it?"

The question was out of the blue and definitely _not_ something he'd expected. What was he to say? What did she _expect_ him to say?

"No."

His reply apparently did not satisfy her. She continued to look at him intently, pupils shifting almost imperceptibly, as though searching for a deeper, more truthful answer. Did she possess the same uncanny ability for detecting honesty as Roma? He wouldn't be surprised. Special Forces, after all…

Rather swiftly, Sami broke eye contact and picked up her plate, standing to leave. "Thank you, Captain. Have a good meal." Her face was obscured by her red hair as she turned and walked away.

Christoph's gaze followed her until she deposited her items in the dish return and exited the mess hall. Then, he looked at the sandwich half in his hand, and the other half on his plate. He set the former down, his appetite suddenly gone. Damn it all.

(())

The conference room was far too dim, Christoph decided. His chair was comfortable enough, and the long table in front of him polished to a near-perfect shine. But the low lighting hindered any chance of his being content. It reminded him of a three- or four-star restaurant, establishments that he disliked for similar reasons. Loved the food, though. The mess hall food had been the closest he'd come to that, and he'd blown his chance at a decent meal letting Sami's questions get to him. Now his stomach begged without end for some sort of sustenance. Stupid, stupid.

Directly across from him, Max's unmistakable form occupied two seats; one for himself, and one for his feet. His swivel chair tipped back dangerously, threatening to topple the big man over. Max's hands were folded behind his head in a makeshift cushion, and he looked as bored as ever. Christoph knew this was not Max's preferred environment.

Sami was seated to Max's right, hands clasped on the table, twiddling her thumbs. Her face bore an anxious look. Clearly, meetings were not a usual occurrence at headquarters.

Christoph sighed and checked his watch. 1758 hours. He hoped Commander Rachel arrived soon.

As if on cue, the door at the far end of the table opened. All three heads turned as Rachel entered, customary red outfit and all. Under one arm she held a manila folder, and in the same hand a pen. She smiled warmly, meeting everyone's welcoming nod, before turning to look over one shoulder while propping the door open.

Someone else followed her in. The newcomer was obviously male and taller than Rachel but his features were difficult to pick out in the faint lighting. He looked about the room, hands on his waist.

"Hey Rach, could you turn up the lights a little?"

Rachel rounded Christoph's side of the table and reached the other end. She fumbled under the tabletop and the overhead bulbs gradually brightened.

"There, that should be better."

Max rolled his eyes. "You'd think the switch would be by the door, but nooo…"

Christoph did not partake in Max's complaints, instead choosing to inspect Rachel's accomplice.

Dirty blonde hair. Ragged white, pocketed shirt. White belted cargo pants. A set of gloves poked out of one of the side pouches, and oversized headphones hung around his neck.

The newcomer noticed Christoph. "Sup?" No hello, no use of title.

Jake, made famous among the troops during the war. A captain, if Christoph wasn't mistaken. That made them equally ranked, but Jake's experience gave him a one-up over Christoph.

He nodded, throwing a half-hearted salute. "Afternoon." If what he'd heard was true, Jake would definitely _not_ be a stickler for procedure, even less so than the other COs. He trusted that was the case.

Rachel settled into the chair at the head of the table. "Jake, this is Captain Christoph Jorn, just promoted a few hours ago. He's the newest member of our little group here. Christoph, this is Commander Jake."

Jake grinned casually. "Awesome! Welcome to the gang, Chris. Is it cool if I call you Chris?"

Christoph dipped his head. Max already used his nickname, no reason why Jake couldn't. "Go right ahead. It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain. The grunts appreciated your leadership during the war, trust me."

"Good to know, man. Thanks." Jake's head bobbed while he looked about. "Cool cool, we've got everyone here. Let's get this rollin'." The young CO didn't bother to select any particular seat, instead taking the one right in front of him, at the table end opposite of Rachel.

And so the band numbered five.

The door swung shut with a click. Rachel set her folder onto the table, leaned forward, and steepled her fingers. All heads turned and all eyes focused on the Commanding General. So, this _was _serious. Christoph felt a mix of suspense and curiosity. According to what Rachel said earlier, this very meeting prompted his promotion.

She coughed as gracefully as one could, though if she was attempting to attract attention the effect was redundant – Rachel already held the undivided attention of everyone in the room. "I'm sure all of you have heard of recent tensions between Orange Star and the former members of the Allied Nations." She paused, plainly offering anyone the chance to contradict her assumption. None did. Even out on the front, this news wasn't unknown; Christoph and his lieutenants generally wrote it off as political horseplay.

"I disbanded the Allied Nations after the last war. It was purely a military alliance, formed for the strict purpose of retaking Omega Land. Not political, not economic. There's no need for the A.N., with Black Hole utterly defeated. It would only eat up funds.

"But ironically," she said, opening her hands in mock apology, "Black Hole was the only thing keeping us together. Yes, our military leaders were amiable enough. We had good times with the other COs. But our presidents and prime ministers and _emperors_," this last title held emphasis, a thinly veiled reference to Yellow Comet, "didn't see it that way. Political feuds broke out as quickly as martial ones died. Territory disputes. Commercial arguments. How to deal with the remaining Black Hole troops."

For one reason or another, Rachel chose that moment to fix her gaze directly on Christoph. Whatever her intentions were, he swallowed hard. Hopefully not visibly.

Her line of sight continued past him, sweeping the room. "Now, however average and expected these politics may seem to everyone - including us - there's one piece of information that hasn't reached public ears."

There was an audible creaking of plastic. Everyone straightened in their seats, Christoph included.

"It concerns Green Earth."


	3. The Lion's Cousin

Sepp Lee spat from his perch atop one of the platoon's tanks. He didn't bother holding his head high once the wad of wet splattered against the dirt; instead he took a relaxed position with elbows on knees, one calloused hand dangling and the other busy with fiddling fingers. He did his damndest to clear out the dirt from his nails one-handed, but after a good minute of effort he gave up and let it loose too.

He squinted up at the sky, wondering at the evening heat. It wasn't so terrible, and for once in his funny life he found himself thanking Command for making a smart move – assigning the unit desert-pattern vehicles. The brighter colors ate up less heat during the day compared to the standard orange and dark green.

Sepp looked back down and a strand of his curly blonde hair fell randomly. Evidence of premature baldness? His pap didn't suffer from it. He thought what he would look like without hair and figured it would be strange. And lumpy.

A solitary soldier ambled by the tank, rifle slung over one shoulder, binoculars around his neck, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Sentry duty. Sepp abruptly shot an extended finger in his direction. "Hey!"

The soldier jolted his head and blinked, startled. "Sir?"

Sepp held his expression firm. It felt odd, like his facial muscles weren't used to it. He didn't do a lot of things with a stern attitude. Then he grinned devilishly. "What time is it, soldier?"

The infantryman grinned back. _Lieutenant Sepp, always playing games, _Sepp imagined the soldier thought. "'Few after six, sir."

"Thanks." A silence, and then, "Say, soldier, you got another cig on ya?"

"Sure thing." He dug around his pocket and came up with a box of smokesticks. He tossed the whole thing, and a lighter, up to the lanky lieutenant.

Sepp pulled one out, stuck it between his dry, sand-battered lips, and flicked the lighter on. A yellowish flame leaped and danced in merriment of its liberation, bare heat warming his lean face, but the fire's festivities were cut short once Sepp's cigarette was burning. He tossed both pieces back to the soldier. "Thanks a bunch."

"No problem, sir." The soldier, however, didn't continue his patrol. He looked to the west through a gap in the trees, towards the fading orange horizon. Sepp looked too, but not at the sun. He focused on the wood: wasn't dead, despite all the dirt and sand. Patches of green grass splotched the rolling countryside. A low chorus of cricket hums blanketed the late afternoon landscape. Sandstorms hadn't killed everything - lucky that. He reckoned they were all due a bit of luck.

Sepp turned back, bony nose pointing along the tank's long barrel. The exaggerated mental image of the silhouette he and his machine made was almost comical. He inhaled, sucking on his cigarette, and plucked it from his lips. As he let out his breath gray smoke billowed forth, momentarily clouding his vision. He lazily waved one hand in a feeble attempt to encourage the smoke's departure.

The gray stuff gradually floated away, but a small cloud refused to budge, suspended in air. It took Sepp a couple heartbeats to realize it wasn't smoke at all but a plume of dust in the distance. North, the direction his tank faced. All the signals of another sandstorm, except…

"Never from the north," Sepp mumbled.

The soldier glanced over. "What was that, sir?"

Keeping his eyes locked on the cloud, Sepp beckoned his companion over. "Gimme your field glasses, private."

The sentry didn't question his orders. He relieved his neck of the binoculars and slapped them into Sepp's hand. Sepp heaved them up – a heavy pair, meant to take some punishment – and set his eyes on the lenses.

Took a little focusing but Sepp got it right after some fooling around. The dust cloud, it seemed, was sand kicked up by a vehicle breaching a far-off hill. Recon, looked like. But it wasn't Orange Star. Not the right design or color. Sepp couldn't place it.

He offered the glasses back to the soldier while pointing off. "Private, take a look see and tell me what's out there."

Again, the soldier silently obeyed, accepting and readjusting them for his own eyes.

"It's a recon, sir."

"I can damn well see that. It's not OSA, though."

Seconds ticked by. Finally, another answer: "Looks like a Green Earth unit." He relaxed his arms, looking curiously at his superior. "Closest Greenie unit around's gotta be… thirty klicks north, Lieutenant. Calciki area. What's he doing way down here?"

Sepp squinted, as if his eyes were a match for the powerful lenses. "You got me," he muttered. "Can't imagine they're lost."

The soldier frowned and returned to watching the object of their fascination. By now, the remote hum of the recon was perceptible. It bounced down the hill, angling this way and that. _The damndest thing. Wonder if they ran into some groundhogs. Looking for help, maybe?_ Groundhogs. The less-than-flattering euphemism for Black Hole troops.

"Sweet heaven!"

Sepp broke his stare from the recon and glanced to his right. The sentry's mouth hung open. Sepp reexamined the northern terrain.

The entire far side of the hill swelled with dust even as he watched. More shapes rose over the hill's crest, by ones and twos, until a dozen came into view. Though the particulars were hard to distinguish, the collective din of the new outlines was unmistakable. Enormously loud diesel engines. Tanks.

Sepp tossed that over in his head. Diesel meant they weren't Orange Star. OSA main battle tanks – Oberons - were propelled by turbine engines, which produced a recognizable roar.

"Glasses." They changed hands once more. Sepp brought them up and his augmented vision told him all he needed to know. The tanks were squatter than Oberons but noticeably larger. Lynx. Definitely Green Earth.

Sepp twisted his torso and leaned over the side of his metallic roost, looking back towards the main body of the camp. The figures that strolled about were few. No one seemed anxious, no one ran to and fro bearing messages. He figured that there would've been some sort of radio chatter from the Greens. There was no news of scheduled troop movements as far as Sepp knew.

It really didn't concern him all that much. Everyone was so damn tired of the war that they were probably just doing as they pleased, having some fun. Sepp grinned inwardly at the thought of joining them, if he didn't bear the respect he did for Christoph's command.

But still, it was probably prudent to head to the comm tent. He stood slowly and stretched, cigarette still sloping from his mouth, and then sluggishly clambered down to the ground. No need to rush. He handed off the binoculars for the final time. "Aight, soldier, I'm heading over to the radio boys, see if they know anything about this. Keep an eye out and tell me if they come this way. They're probably just bored out of their minds, like us."

The sentry nodded with a salute. "Yes sir. Will do."

Sepp turned to leave and moseyed his way between his tank and the next, still puffing on his cigarette. He left the perimeter and walked about ten meters into the collection of tents, doing his best to remember which one housed the radio station.

A few moments later, a muffled _poom_ sounded to Sepp's rear. He knew that sound. It wasn't a good sound. He whirled about, ready to scan for the characteristic rounded profile of Black Hole armor-

His tank was suddenly and absolutely shattered by a searing yellow explosion. Sepp yelped and desperately threw his arms in front of his face. White hot pain sheeted his unclothed forearms. Thousands of pinpricks punched their way through his thin summer shirt – like a horde of bees all stung his chest at once.

Everything was blue and orange. _What the hell?_ Then he realized he was looking at the sky. He was on his back. There was a strange ringing in his ears. Sepp groaned – or, he thought he did, he couldn't even hear himself think – and sat up. Probably shoulda checked himself for injuries. His head reeled, but he managed to focus his vision and look around. His former tank was a shell of scrap, a heap of burning metal so bright he couldn't look at it directly. The sentry he'd exchanged words with was nowhere to be seen.

Sepp realized the man was probably dead.

"Shit." This he heard. Good, he wasn't deaf. Men yelled, curses filled the air. Sepp picked himself up and almost fell over, stumbling and catching his balance. His legs worked. Also good. He staggered deeper into the camp. More explosions. Soldiers ran frantically with no perceptible order, but Sepp's subconscious knew they were all drilled for an event like this. Each had their own place.

He seized one tankman stiffly by the arm. The soldier's eyes were wide with fright and confusion. He struggled before realizing his assailant was the lieutenant.

"Sir, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

Sepp's breathing was ragged. "Don't know, private. Was hoping you could tell me. I think I blacked out. Where's Black Hole?" He had a million questions about where they came from too, and how they'd managed to get the jump on them, but Sepp's better judgment told him this man knew no more than he.

The solider blinked. "Sir? It's not the groundhogs."

Sepp's grip on his arm tightened. "What?"

"It's not Black Hole, sir. It's the Greens!"

Sepp felt his body go rigid. He processed this revelation, still shell-shocked. "What the fuck? Where'd they come from?"

"The north, sir! Weren't you there?" The soldier looked at his arm, ready to say something about Sepp's clutch, but he stopped. "Lieutenant…"

Sepp glanced down. His inner forearm was burned a deep red, hairs charred black. Trickles of blood seeped from a few open wounds. The front of his shirt was almost completely shredded and in places stained rose. Funny, there was no pain.

"Sir, I need to get to my tank! Get yourself to a medtent!" With that, the soldier yanked himself free and sprinted off, helmet nearly falling from his skull.

Sepp merely stood there like an abandoned child, watching the retreating man. Another explosion tore into something metal behind him, the evening air briefly lit as superfluous evidence of its power.

Green Earth. What the _fuck? _He had to see it to believe it. He looked to his right and left. A pile of crates rested in the middle of the encampment. He dashed over, and, one by one, scaled the manmade mountain. The top wasn't much higher than the tents, but it was high enough. When he reached it he stood on shaky legs and looked to the north.

There had been a dozen pine-green Lynx tanks out there before. Now there were twenty or so, the latest newcomers still rolling down the far hill. The closer ones alternatively let loose with their cannons. The dull thuds of their firing were drowned out by the detonation of their rounds, which came far more frequently now. A couple of the first ones to show were already trekking up the quarter-mile slope towards the Orange Star embankment.

Awe-struck, Sepp swept the camp's perimeter. Three metal hulks on the very far edge, formerly Oberons, burned in their own fuel, his perch included. Two more closer in were visibly crippled. A couple bodies were scattered amongst the wreckage, but a solitary pair of field glasses lay deserted in the dirt. The remaining tankmen scrambled to their machines.

A familiar sound growled underneath the deafening din of exploding tank rounds. The high-pitched whine of Oberon turbines starting up, and before long the whine became a roar. Sepp prayed fervently that wonderful noise would only become louder with the addition of more friendly tanks.

Once Sepp clambered down from the crates and hit the ground, he did his best to sprint for the radio tent. His mind worked over and over, seeking an impossible answer to an impossible question.

_Why Green Earth?_

(())

Christoph leaned forward, elbows on the wooden table. An air of suspense saturated the conference room. If he didn't know better, he would've said Rachel was dragging out the disclosure just to create apprehension.

Max, however, wasn't amused. "What _about_ Green Earth?" he asked simply.

Rachel's eyes swung between the members of her audience. Then, they rested on the folder sitting in front of her. She flatted a hand over it and propelled it across the table; it expertly halted in front of the four of them. Well, Jake had to lean in a little.

Max took this as unspoken permission to open it and did so. Within were a series of eight-by-eleven black-and-white photographs. The big man spread them out for all to see. Christoph half-stood to get a better view.

They were clearly reconnaissance photos. Christoph guessed aircraft, not satellite, but something was odd about them.

Rachel cleared her throat again. "These photos were taken a few days ago, by one of our recon aircraft."

Sami picked one up and handled it, tilting it one direction and her head in another, her hair sagging to one side. She narrowed her eyes. "These look pretty high up for a jet."

Christoph looked at her. "But too low for a sat."

"I can't tell you anything other than they were taken by _aircraft_. Trust me." Christoph examined Rachel. Only a slight curling of one lip. Clearly holding something else back. He guessed immediately that the aircraft in question was new and most probably _classified_. They wouldn't get any more answers from the CG concerning it.

So, instead, he turned his attention back to the content of the pictures. Wooded plains, it looked like, with lighter areas more uniform in shade. Those were probably regions that had undergone desertification. Just like his hometown. He frowned. That wasn't what he wanted to see, and definitely wasn't the subject of the photographs.

The true focus seemed to be the armored regiments sitting in battle-ready formation. The individual tanks and machines were impossible to pick out, the photos had been taken from so high up, but something about them didn't exactly feel right.

Jake poked a finger at his sheet. "These are Green Earth guys, right?"

"That's right. But the problem is-"

"They're definitely not in the right place. Uncool," Jake said, advertently or inadvertently interrupting Rachel, Christoph couldn't tell. "I can make it out. That's southern Calciki, where I'm from."

It was Sami's turn to ask a question. "Is that not where they're supposed to be?"

Rachel shook her head. "No. Like Jake said, the Green Earth unit is stationed south of the city of Calciki. Their last assignment was north of the city proper."

Max blew air from his lungs, tossing his picture onto the table. "So what? We're not their boss, maybe Green Earth wanted to move them for whatever reason. Maybe they found some Black Hole goons and decided to take 'em out."

Again, the CG shook her head. "There's something else. While relations between the Four Great Nations haven't been stellar of late, Orange Star and Green Earth affairs have taken a turn for the worse. That hasn't been reported to the media yet."

Sami chewed on her lower lip, a worried shadow newly cloaking her face. "How far downhill?"

Christoph glanced over to her; the tone in Sami's voice sounded almost personally affected by the news.

"Fairly far. They've made some pretty ridiculous demands. Territory cessations in Omega Land. Additional reparations for their aid, beyond what was originally agreed upon. Things like that.

"And," Rachel added, rotating her pointing index finger, "If you look at all of the photos and where they were taken, it's pretty clear that Green Earth is making moves to defend against the other armies, as if it expects an attack. Except towards us. Most nearby Green Earth units are, ah – well, intelligence says they're making preliminary preparations for an assault."

Christoph was taken aback. "Shit," he mumbled. "Assault us?"

Rachel nodded solemnly.

A full minute passed without a noise other than their collective breathing. Christoph sat there, brow furrowed, unable to understand any of it. He wasn't a politician. He'd just been handed a Commanding Officer rank but now he felt less sure of his new position. He was a fighter, meant to be out on the front lines. Sure, he was smart enough, but what the hell use was he here?

He studied the other COs. Max's hands were clasped together, expression stone. Jake's arms were crossed. He didn't look like the kind of person who frowned often, but that's what he was doing. Looked strange, coming from such an upbeat individual.

Sami held a palm against her forehead, fingers in her hair, clearly perturbed. Moreso than anyone else. Her lips moved silently, as if she'd found a word problem on her photograph and had committed herself to solving it.

Rachel simply looked weary. Someone who was too young and too overburdened to do her job, but did it anyway.

Finally, one of them spoke quietly. "Is it gonna come to war? All over again?" Jake. He sounded as Rachel looked. Too young to see what he'd seen, done what he'd done. The pitch of his voice unmistakably communicated that he didn't want to go through that a second time.

Rachel answered, also quiet. "Maybe." For her, though, there was an underlying acceptance in her response.

Green Earth. Some years ago, the aggressors had been Blue Moon. It was only the realization that Black Hole was manipulating the conflict that encouraged the Four Greats to make peace. While Christoph certainly did not relish the prospect of war, he couldn't say he was surprised. Conflict was the nature of man, one could say.

"So," Christoph ventured after a while, "I don't mean to steer the topic, but why is this news linked to my promotion? I should be out there, heading my platoon. If Green Earth does decide to attack, they're leaderless."

"No." Rachel again. Seemed she had all the answers. Of course, one would expect her to, being the Commanding General. "Your record is good, and we had some positions to fill after the last war. We didn't let it get around that Black Hole had a – what's the word – _propensity_ for assassinating lower rung COs. Namely captains, some majors."

Wonderful. At least to Black Hole, he was spy bait. Hopefully the Greens didn't take a liking to those kinds of tricks.

"And we needed one position filled in particular. HQ's Commanding Officer."

Christoph leaned back, shifting his uniform and doing his best to relax in the tense atmosphere. "Why's that?"

"Well, there was no one else for the job, really. Max and Jake do offense very well. That's what they're best at. Sami is Special Operations, of course. I'm usually dealing with higher levels of command. There are other captains, yes, but they earned their stripes mainly through procedure. Everyone else," that probably meant Commander Andy and C-in-C Nell, "is back on the main continent, at the capital."

"So I'm in charge of conducting facility defense, is that it?"

"Right. You're pretty good with combined arms, and that's what's best for defensive strategies." She spread her fingertips over the table. "A network of units that work well together. You'll be given some additional troops, mechanized infantry in particular. And some of the better tanks. Neo, perhaps a Megatank or two that survived the fighting."

Christoph's heart smiled guiltily. Finally, a chance to use some of the big guns. Then he remembered something, and his elation broke. He knew the answer to his question even before he asked. "What about my platoon? Will they be transferred to my authority?"

A pause. Then, "I'm sorry Christoph. That creates a conflict of interests. They will remain with Max."

Max himself spread his hands. "Sorry, Chris. I promise you can come visit, if you want."

Christoph sighed lightly. Perhaps he would have the opportunity to remain in touch with Roma and Sepp and Sigfried. That much at least. If the drums of war didn't end up fading in just as they faded out, there was a good chance of that. But if conflict did spark again, there was no telling what the fate of his friendships with the trio would be.

Sami seemed to have recovered from whatever perplexed her. Something was different, though. She seemed tapped, emotionally exhausted for no observable reason. "So, what's our next move?" She sounded jaded. Weary of fighting, Christoph supposed.

"We have about a platoon's worth of mixed troops on location, with another company arriving tomorrow. Those will be under Christoph. Max's battalion is already stationed northwest of here, ready to receive any potential Green Earth aggression. Jake, your troops…"

But Christoph wasn't listening. Something was wrong. His soldier's experience immediately told him it was aural, and his brain automatically muted out Rachel's orders. A sound much like a low-flying jet grew in his ears. But the building's walls had muffled the noise, and it was already far too late.

It ended with a hugely powerful explosion, impossible to tell from where. The floor shook, the table vibrated. Someone yelled, "_Holy sh-_" but they were cut off. Another blast, then another. The walls jarred at eight different angles. Christoph made it to the floor, via his own power or not. Didn't matter. He rolled under the table. Somehow Jake was next to him, but not beneath the protection of the wood, so Christoph grabbed him and hauled him under too. No time to worry about the others. He barricaded his head with his arms and just prayed. There was nothing else he could do.

Each time the shaking let up, another explosion sounded, sending the world reeling all over again. Christoph felt like the floor was a wall and he was about to slip off into freefall. The terrifying thing was there was nothing he could do about it. He was completely helpless, wholly at the mercy of this unknown cataclysm.

Then, the upheaval subsided as unexpectedly as it had begun. He opened his eyes. Dust. Couldn't see two feet in front of his face. Someone coughed.

"Everyone ok?" Max.

A few voices responded, Christoph's included. One was missing, though. Rachel's.

"Rach?" Jake said.

Heavy breathing. Then, weakly, "I'm here…"

Christoph crawled forward. His head bumped into something. The table. Rachel's end had collapsed. Oh, hell.

He found his way out from under his shelter, standing carefully. Nothing broken. The dust had only begun to settle, but he felt his way around the room regardless.

A portion of the roof had caved in over the CG's chair. Christoph hurriedly looked around, but there was still a sheet of floating dust over the floor. It dissipated only after Christoph's impatient waiting.

Rachel lay on the floor, largely whole, but her left leg was caught under concrete debris. Blood ran from her now-uncapped hair. Shit.

He knelt. "Don't move, Commander."

She disregarded his concern and propped herself up, teeth gritting. A mild groan escaped her in the process, but she was able to sit up properly. "I'm ok, I think."

Now the others were standing. Max shook his head. "What the hell was that?" His interest in the event, however, quickly died once he saw Rachel's leg under the rubble. He shoved his chair out of the way and came over, also kneeling. He examined her predicament, clearly unsure of how to take action

"Ah… I'm no good at first aid. What do we do?"

But Christoph reversed Max's train of thought for his own purposes. He stood, less concerned with Rachel's dilemma now that he knew her back and skull weren't broken. Instead he moved to the window and jerked on the blinds cord.

"Artillery," he stated.

"Huh?" Jake was visibly dazed.

"That was an artillery strike. On HQ. We need to get out of here, fast." He looked outside. The west side of the compound had also been hit. The one visible low building had a few holes punched in its roof. A couple vehicles burned, as did one of the compound's tanks. There were only four tanks stationed on the grounds, now three. The HQ guard was hideously undermanned. Evidently they hadn't anticipated a sudden barrage like this.

Movement, on the far plains. More tanks. Not Orange Star. Flat green tracks.

"Fuck," he said, louder than he'd intended.

Sami was next to him. She followed Christoph's gaze and saw the tracked vehicles approaching. "Green Earth." As she said it, one tank's cannon pumped smoke. An orange fireball struck the side of the battered two-story structure.

"Yea. Like I said, we need to leave."

"Not without Rachel," Jake spat, a tinge of hysteria marring his normally laid-back behavior. The two at the window spun to look. Max was removing chunks of concrete from Rachel's trapped leg, as gently as he could. Rachel's eyes met Sami's. "I think it's broken. You said they're Green Earth?"

Sami nodded.

Rachel rounded their faces. "You guys need to go. Now. I'd rather let them capture one CO than five."

"With all due respect," Max grunted, "that's bullshit. We aren't leaving you here. This isn't a time for heroics. I'm getting you out."

Jake pulled a sidearm from a waist holster. Christoph hadn't noticed it. "Me too."

Gunfire popped outside. Christoph caught a glimpse of the action through the window – the Green forces were engaging what remained of the HQ's defenders. It wouldn't be a contest. He guessed they had maybe ten minutes to flee or risk capture.

Sami ran a hand through her hair. "Our soldiers need coordination. They don't have a CO giving them orders. If they did, that would give both them and us more time to withdrawal."

They all exchanged glances. Rachel coughed. "You're right. Are you up for that, Sami?"

"Yea." She pointed to Christoph. "You're with me. Jake and Max can take care of Rachel."

Christoph's ears arbitrarily popped. "Ok. Right."

"You have a gun in your office, right Rach?"

The CG murmured something that sounded like 'yes'.

"Good." Sami moved for the door. "Come on Captain. Let's move."

Christoph looked back to Rachel, Max, and Jake. Max met his eyes and mouthed _go_. So he did.

For the second time that day, Christoph found himself following Sami. They exited the conference room and took four quick steps to the Commanding General's office. Both looked left and right down the hall. People crowded at the end windows. Bad idea, Christoph thought, but the pair was through the wooden door before he could say anything.

The secretary's desk was deserted. Sami reached Rachel's office door; if she hadn't turned the handle, Christoph would've thought she'd have busted right through it. More bangs rippled through the dense walls. Some distant shouting.

Sami moved into the familiar room and rounded the desk, wrenching open three drawers before finding what she needed. She pulled out a standard issue army handgun and holster, along with an extra clip. She expertly checked the already-loaded magazine, and, apparently satisfied, cocked the gun and set the holster to her belt. The weapon was still in her hand.

"Let's go."

They jogged from the room and down the hall. "We'll go to the radio station first. We can rally whoever's left from there and you can pick up a weapon."

"Ok."

Sami shouldered her way past Christoph and pushed open the stairway door. She held her pistol straight, ready to fire, tracking the stairs below them as they began their descent.

No one met them. The all-too-recognizable sputtering of small arms fire echoed up the stairway. Sami took the steps slowly, one leg over the other, crouching and as tense as an instrument cord. Christoph stayed a safe distance back. He felt naked without a gun. Hell, he felt naked without a platoon. Right now he was entirely dependant on Sami's defense if enemy soldiers stormed the building.

They reached the bottom after an antagonizing minute. Sami signaled for him to open the door. Christoph ducked past, avoiding the stairwell window. Sami kept her gun trained and nodded. He pulled it open, staying behind the solid steel surface. Nothing happened save the outdoor fighting increasing in volume.

"Clear."

Again Sami went first. Looked right, then left. She moved. Christoph followed.

The first floor wasn't as easily laid out as the rest of the structure, with nonsymmetrical corridors and various offices. The walls were wood paneling instead of white plaster. Christoph had no idea where they were, but Sami kept moving, familiar with the floor plan. He had to trust her implicitly if either of them hoped to make it out alive. Any of them, for that matter.

Daylight ahead. An open door. They walked closer.

An infantryman rounded the door frame. His uniform was dark, the color hard to discern in the shaded indoors. But the style of his rifle and helmet gave away his nationality. Christoph lurched to a stop.

There was no cursing, no initial shout. He watched as Sami squeezed the trigger of her pistol in rapid succession. Two loud cracks invaded Christoph's ears, the sound amplified in the close quarters. The Green Earth soldier staggered. Irregular splotches spread over the man's uniform and he fell over.

She kept her pistol aimed at the door while pushing Christoph to the left with her other hand. "Move!"

Christoph needed no coaxing – he stumbled down the side hallway. Behind him another pair of handgun rounds made themselves known. Then heavy footsteps. He dared to look over his shoulder and saw Sami sprinting after him. She bore no expression, other than a blank determination. He picked up his pace.

Another intersection. Christoph paused, unsure of which way to go. One direction led to an exit, the other-

Oh God.

Orange Star soldiers. Strewn across the floor, blue carpet stained brown and purple with their blood. Torsos discolored in vaguely circular patterns, sometimes five or six on one man. The farthest one – his skull was quite literally cracked open. Something that wasn't blood leaked out.

Christoph had seen death before. He knew the terror, the primal fear of being trapped within his tank, knowing full well he and his crew would never see an ill-fated shell coming. He'd seen soldiers – his own men – crawl screaming from their metal deathtraps, their living skin engulfed in flames. He'd seen enemy soldiers do the same. He'd been the harbinger of that very fate on more than one occasion.

But this was much more personal. This wasn't just frightening, this was sickening. He felt like he would vomit on the spot, not from the sight of the dead but the sheer inhumanity that pierced his very heart.

Instead Christoph stood frozen, eyes wide. His vision traveled down the corridor, closer to the intersection, until they reached his feet. Another body lay there. A bright orange star was stitched to the former soldier's sleeve. He didn't have a rifle in his hands. His round helmet had shifted somehow, and obscured his face.

Christoph felt an unwarranted urge to kneel next to the body and remove the helmet, to reveal the features of the dead man. He probably would have if Sami hadn't nearly tripped over him.

"_Captain, _get your ass MOVING!"

Christoph broke from his trance, almost reluctantly. He left the dead soldier, again following Sami. He felt drained. Drained and very, very afraid.

The Special Forces commander went opposite the corpses, down the right hall. An emergency exit marked the end. This certainly qualified, and it bore no argument as she rammed into the handlebar full-body. They finally emerged into the cool evening.

Chaos was the only word that could describe the scene. Half of the eastern structure was damaged in some way, the other half on fire. Deafening spurts of yellow flashed from shattered windows. Bullet holes rattled the concrete walls in response. A streak of smoke pillared laterally towards the north, impacting on the front face of a Lynx tank a hundred yards away. The projectile ricocheted off harmlessly. Another Lynx rolled up next to it; its cannon jolted. Even at three hundred feet the sound made Christoph's ears ring, and when the tank round ripped a hole in the building the resulting shockwave was equally immobilizing.

They bolted across the open space between the buildings. Sami dove for the alcove that housed the low structure's main entrance. Christoph followed, nearly eating dirt as he impacted and skidded the last two feet. The thought flashed across his mind that this was nothing like being a tankman. This was heart-pounding and very, very brutal.

Christoph spat. The wet dribbled down his chin. He dragged himself up against the wall. Sami already had her back pressed against it. Her chest rose and fell sharply, but in a rhythmic and controlled manner, even in the heat of battle. Her face was marked with dirt from the impact with the ground; Christoph realized his probably was too.

Then he noticed an Orange Star soldier cringing in the corner of the alcove. His rifle, the barrel dented out of alignment, was still clutched tight in his hands, but they shook wildly. His breathing was erratic. His unshaven face only added to his miserable condition. It was covered in blood and discolored bits, but he didn't have any noticeable wounds.

The infantryman's large eyes clearly spelled fright beyond anything he'd experienced. They shifted between Christoph and Sami. Only Christoph wore his officer's emblem. Sami'd lost hers at some point.

"You alright soldier?" Christoph cursed himself. What the fuck kind of question was that? He chalked it up to his own naïveté in dealing with infantry on the field.

The man only stared at them. Then he shook his head.

Sami found her voice. "Where's your squad, soldier?" At least her query was rational, considering their current state.

Again he shook his head. "Gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

If his eyes could get any larger, they did. "I saw 'em. I saw 'em all get blown up right in my face. One sec they were there and the next they're all pieces and fire."

It dawned on Christoph that the blood and specks on the man's face weren't his. The urge to vomit rose again.

"It's alright, private. You're coming with us, understand?"

For what seemed like ages he didn't reply. As he started to nod, another shell impacted on the main structure across from their position. Christoph instinctually shielded his face. When he dropped his arms the private was dead. Throat cut from shrapnel. _Holy fuck._ Sami and he were goddamned lucky.

Sami's looked at the dead man, mouth slightly open. Then she leaned over and grasped his pack strap to haul him over. She removed one strap, then the next, and slung the rucksack over her own shoulders.

"There's one there. Grab it." She pointed next to the door. Christoph did as he was told, copying her and shouldering it.

"Ok. This is what we're doing. We run south," her index finger indicated away from the two Lynx, "and then east. Into the woods. We don't stop running."

"But what about Max? The troops?"

She slipped her legs underneath, propping herself on her knees. "We have to save ourselves. HQ is lost. We can't hold it. Green Earth is going to overrun this place in a matter of minutes."

He maneuvered himself to sprint with her. "Is there nothing we can do for them?"

Sami gazed south. "Pray."


	4. And Through the Woods

_Author's Note: I would like to point out that I am not a military man. Most of what I know about the structure of real-world militaries and how equipment functions comes from my own independent research and reading more technical war novels. I owe much to Harold Coyle's Team Yankee, and Tom Clancy's Red Storm Rising. But none of Clancy's later stuff._

_Also, reviews would be awesome, even while the story is still in-progress! It helps keep my motivation up and running._

(())

"Sepp! Sepp, what in _God's name_ is happening out there?"

Sepp nearly barreled over a misplaced folding chair as he burst into the radio tent. A tanker's helmet that had rested on top bounced to the ground and rolled away.

The station was abuzz with activity. The incoherent chatter of three different radio operators, their machines, and various non-coms was more akin to jabbering arguments than conversation. It was stifling and far too crowded to house any kind of order. The presence of one very large and very aggravated man didn't help.

Sigfried halted Sepp's tumbling and gripped his shoulders with iron hands. His bald, sweaty features betrayed panic as he looked Sepp square in the eye. "Sepp! Come on, we need to figure this out. What's going on?"

Sepp swallowed and did his best to catch his breath. "Greenies. Green Earth armor," he gasped, "Attacking, from th' north."

The big man's jowls set hard. "What're you blabbering about, man? War games or something?"

"No, dammit!" He didn't mean to sound so pissed, but it couldn't be helped. "_Green Earth_ is _assaulting our camp_. I saw it happen. We've already lost five tanks. Need to coordinate… something."

Sigfried looked as though he was about to ask a handful of questions, but apparently thought better of it. No time to figure out the whys and wherefores. They were under attack, and they needed to do something about it. "Where's Roma?"

"No idea. Aight, we need to…" but he trailed off. They needed to do what? Sepp couldn't think straight. His nerves were starting to receive the pain from his burned arm and bleeding skin. His wounds felt like they were seeping something molten. His head pounded from the constant detonations. Think. _Think._

Ok. Roma was in charge, but she wasn't here. Sigfried didn't have a clue about the situation. That left Sepp. Five tanks gone. Maybe more by now. They had fifteen or so total. Ten remaining. Technically Oberons were superior to Lynx; they had better range and more instruments for nightfighting and poor visibility. Neither of those advantages helped now.

"Ok," he started. "Ok. We need to organize a retreat." He looked to the radio operators. The closest one was looking back at Sepp. He seemed calm enough, but, Sepp knew, looks were often deceiving. "You. Get on that thing and order everything but our armor – vehicles, APCs, artillery – order them to withdraw. And get in touch with Bravo Company, tell 'em what's happening. Sig! Where's the rest of Bravo?"

Sigfried looked dumbstruck for a moment before recovering his wits. "Ah, west of here, about twenty miles. They should be with some more elements of the 2nd Battalion."

Their battalion, Max's battalion. Good. He turned back to the operator. "Inform the platoon we're withdrawing west. Tell the armor…" he stopped.

"Tell them what, sir?"

Sepp swallowed hard. Then, in a voice almost too quiet to hear over the commotion: "Tell 'em to hold off the enemy."

The operator's lower jaw quivered. Sepp almost thought he wasn't going to do it, but the man turned to his machine. He began to relay the instructions.

"Sig, get outta here. Once these orders are out, take the rest of these guys and find an APC." More explosions outside. Sepp looked about worriedly. The other men started removing themselves and filing out the rear exit, their relief palpable.

"Hold on a sec, buddy. I'm not leaving you here. Plus," the corner of Sigfried's mouth turned up, "Who the hell'r you to give me orders, _second_ lieutenant?"

That was very true. Still, Sepp wasn't having any of it. "Goddamn it Sig, _I'm_ the armor lieutenant, _you're_ the field logistics officer. You're no use t' anyone dead! If you go now, you might still make it out of here alive with these men!"

Sigfried bit his lip. He didn't want to leave – that much was obvious – but he started to will his heavy limbs to move.

The tent flaps flew open. Roma swept in, a permanent mild scowl affixed to her face, hair knot halfway undone. One sleeve of her camouflage uniform was torn. "He can't give you orders, but I can. Get the hell out of here." She stopped next to Sepp and effortlessly swapped conversations. "Did you tell the auxtroops to move?"

Sepp blinked. "Yea, what of it?"

Roma's scowl deepened. Lines had appeared very recently on her face and only served to enhance her fierce image. "Christoph left _me_ in charge. I did _not_ give you that kind of authority, damn it! What the hell were you thinking?"

Sepp would've been shocked and shown it if he wasn't hurting. "You weren't here. I gave 'em what orders were necessary."

"Did you even think to get some intel?" Shadows crossed her high cheekbones. "There could be enemy troops to the west! What if you sent our men straight into them?

Sepp struggled to find a retort. "What the fuck was I supposed to do? Have them sit around while we looked for the dandiest route out? The Greens are almost _on top of us_, there isn't that kind of time!"

But Roma wasn't listening anymore. Her eyes flickered to Sepp's radio operator. The man had just finished speaking into his headset, and removed it. He looked to Sepp, then Roma, helpless.

She spoke first, "You're with Lieutenant Lehmann. Get to it."

Again he looked between the two officers. He stood on shaky legs, almost knocking over his chair. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you ma'am."

Sigfried puffed his cheeks. "Alright," His tone suggested an acceptance of their decision. "Remember, rendezvous with the rest of the company ASAP."

They nodded in affirmation.

As he turned to leave, Sigfried added, "And make it back alive, both of ya, ok?"

"We'll do our best," Sepp assured him. "Luck."

The big man left with the last radio operator via the rear exit. Sepp sighed and looked sidelong at Roma. He felt woozy, from the pressure of command or his wounds or his brief argument, he didn't know.

"You should go too," he said softly. Something rumbled by the tent. Probably an Oberon moving to engage the Greens. "You're artillery. They can't do a damn thing right now, save retreat. It's my job to head up this rear guard."

Her lip curled almost indiscernibly. "Don't screw up out there. Lieutenant Jorn wouldn't be pleased if one of his subordinates were killed."

That didn't help. Sepp avoided spitting something to affirm or rebuke her. He merely watched as she followed Sigfried's footsteps. After she left he grabbed the tanker helmet that he'd knocked over earlier. Then he went opposite Roma's path and exited through the tent flaps.

It was remarkable how well the heavy canvas sheets deadened the sounds of combat. The difference was significant; one minute he'd been 'discussing' the platoon's withdraw, and the next he was in the middle of a warzone. Sepp looked left and right; flames licked the far tents on the northern side of the camp, burning more intensely than they had when the engagement started. Cracks of cannon fire thundered. Treads rumbled, distant and close. He thought he spotted a green tank moving between the sheeted structures, but he couldn't be sure.

Something nagged at the back of his mind, and eventually Sepp realized someone was calling his name. The voice was so faint and drowned out by the fighting that it was a wonder he heard it at all. An Oberon about twenty strides to his left sat stationary – a dangerous position for a battle – helmeted head poking from the turret, dwarfed by the sixty-ton machine.

"Lieutenant Lee!" An arm appeared, frantically waving for him to approach. Sepp grasped his helmet in both hands and pulled it over his head while running for the tank. It crossed his mind that, with jeans and a shredded white t-shirt, the green helmet probably looked oversized and silly, but it was absolutely essential. Once strapped to his head he pumped his long arms to bolt the remaining distance.

As he reached the tracked metal drum and clambered onto it, the head looked down to him. "Lieutenant, our tank commander's missing. Can you sub in?"

Missing could mean dead. Sepp made it to the top of the turret. The man started to descend, but Sepp caught his shoulder patch. Sergeant.

"Can do. What's your name, Sergeant?"

The man disappeared but his answer echoed back as Sepp braced himself and lowered his legs down the hatch. "Luthar, sir."

He'd heard that name somewhere. For some reason Sepp recalled it being tied to the 3rd Infantry Platoon, another group in the company, but he supposed he'd been wrong.

As soon as his feet landed, Sepp pulled the hatch closed overhead. Sergeant Luthar yelled something, and the turbine engine revved in response. The tank lurched forward.

Luthar had squeezed himself against the hull to allow his lieutenant to slip by. Sepp painfully navigated his way around the protruding loading mechanism, bumping into every other doohickey, and took a cramped seat in the commander's chair. It'd been a few weeks since he'd actually commanded armor, and after becoming used to the open air, Sepp felt a hint of claustrophobia settling over his tall stature. He willed it away and concentrated on his display monitor.

"Driver's Lokhande, gunner's Bannon," Luthar said as he took his position as loader to Sepp's left. The man named Bannon, seated in front of and below Sepp, threw up a hand briefly. Simple introductions. They didn't have the time for anything better.

"Right. Let's roll." The tank's individual number – 14 – was plastered on the gray hull. Sepp mentally noted this and keyed his helmet's microphone to match the tank's intercom channel, which was posted with sticky tape on his console. "Lokhande, is it? This is Second Lieutenant Sepp Lee, we're moving west."

An affirmation returned. He involuntarily leaned to the right as sixty tons of composite armor and engine swerved left, picking up speed once the turn was complete. Sepp immediately began scanning for targets in a practiced manner. This was what he was trained to do, what they were all trained to do. Except the mission now wasn't to rout the enemy, but buy the auxiliary troops time.

They started moving down an incline, away from the camp. 14's turret slowly rotated right to face north. Sepp caught a few green blobs on the thermal sight, but his IFF – identification friend or foe – told him they were Orange Star. He continued scanning, doing his best to determine how many friendlies were left – a task that proved difficult, for the close quarters and burning wreckage cluttered his sight.

As the machine bounced heavily along the sloped terrain, another target came into view around the edge of the hill. IFF didn't respond. The possibility of the target's transponder not functioning properly was slim. Sepp made his decision in a split second.

"Gunner! Sabot, tank at 480 meters!"

The gunner named Bannon confirmed it over the intercom, but he yelled loud enough that Sepp could hear him over the whine of the turret hydraulics. "Identified!"

Sepp propped himself up and looked through his periscope extension, leaving Bannon to track the target.

Luthar heaved a tank round into the loader and shoved it closed. He cringed away from the impending recoil. "Up!"

Now was not the time to hesitate. Not the time to give the Greens an inch. Not the time to savor the moment like some half-assed dramatic movie.

"FIRE!"

An enormous bang struck Sepp as the gun recoiled and spat out the used shell casing. Smoke filled the air outside, clouding his extended vision. In smooth succession, Luthar jammed the loader handle, procured another tank round, reloaded the gun, and armed it. All this he did before 14 cleared its self-produced smoke cloud.

Sepp glanced over to Luthar. He was sweating heavily. Not surprising. The heat in the tank was enough to cook a holiday dinner, Sepp decided. He couldn't see Bannon's face, and didn't have a clue what Lokhande looked like. He guessed they were just as steamed. But they worked as an accomplished team, even with an unfamiliar tank commander.

He turned his attention to his instruments once again. The enemy Lynx tank, visible now, wasn't moving. Flames leaped from the gap between the turret and body. They'd been lucky, scoring a one-hit on modern armor.

"Cease fire, gunner! That's a kill."

First blood for this new conflict, Sepp reflected, but not for the crew. Most everyone in the platoon was a veteran of the Omega Land War. Sepp didn't know any of these men personally but felt at home regardless. His normal tank crew, with their machine destroyed in the initial assault, probably went with the auxiliaries.

14 quickly closed on the western tree line and Sepp ordered a right turn. The Oberon pivoted in response – turret still fixated on the low rolling hills ahead of camp – and ran parallel to the trees about twenty meters out. As they advanced the north face of the encampment's gradual slope came into view on his periscope.

A few Lynx sat unmoving, destroyed or otherwise immobilized. Many more Oberons shared the same fate. Those Orange Star tanks that were writeoffs were scattered, no organization to their previous movements evident. Green Earth had caught the platoon off guard, Sepp thought sourly. Men's lives wasted, and he didn't even know why. Politics, he guessed. Some uppity man in a black suit and tie felt the need to throw a punch at Orange Star. Well, he was here to throw a punch back.

Movement on the eastern side of the plain. Too far for standard visual, so Sepp settled in his chair again and looked through his thermal. IFF marked them as Oberons and Surefields, the lighter alternative to the OSA main battle tank.

"Aight crew, looks like there'r some friendlies over yonder." He counted three Oberons and two Surefields. So, six total including number 14.

As he watched one of the smaller green shapes flared up. Damn it. Five total.

He flicked on his radio. Sepp's mind worked smoothly, now that he was in his element and his wounds ignored.

"Team Whiskey, this is Sierra 2. Listen up, we've gotta buy time for the auxes. Round the north face of the camp and head back up to engage – over!"

A chorus of "rogers" and "yes, sirs" responded. No one questioned that it was, in fact, Sepp Lee who had issued the orders. As he watched the remaining light and heavy armor of the platoon altered their collective course and fixated their guns on either the center of the field or their former embankment. They fanned out. A cannon spewed gray, but its shell impacted harmlessly on the ground near a Lynx. _Too hasty_, Sepp thought.

Sepp looked towards the attackers with the extension. A number of Lynx were in view, about seven, still trudging up the hill. The rear ones had their guns trained in reverse, clearly attempting to lock onto the advancing Orange Star tanks. One on the west edge rotated its turret, coming to bear on 14.

_Fuck_. No time to say it, only think it.

"GUNNER, GUNNER, ARMOR AT THREE-TEN METERS, HEAT!"

Apparently Bannon saw it to, for his voice strained. "IDENTIFIED, STILL TRYING-"

He never saw the Lynx's cannon smoke. A flash and explosion, and 14 rocked violently. Sepp's skull rattled within his helmet, and he felt like he'd black out again.

But they were still alive, and the tank still moving. Still alive. No idea what the damage was, but he looked around. Everyone seemed to be alright.

_No! Think!_ They took one hit but who was to say they could take a second? Sepp's train of thought rubberbanded back.

"Gunner! Have a bead?"

A precious second, then: "Yes sir!"

"FIRE!"

The loading mechanism slammed back once more, accompanied by a second deafening blast. Sepp hoped he could still hear after this whole ordeal.

He waited for the wall of gray to disappear, eyes glued to his tool despite the bumping and jostling. His patience was rewarded when the green Lynx flashed on the extension again. Its tracks were motionless, but the turret continued to rotate. Not a clean kill.

Sepp grit his teeth in anticipation of another strike. "Target still kicking! Gunner, ready-"

But suddenly the Lynx took another hit. It quivered and started to burn, the turret grinding to a halt. Someone else had killed it, and probably saved 14 and everyone on board.

Sepp gave target searching responsibilities to Luthar and Bannon. He looked for his allies. The remaining Surefield was gone, metal splintered and broken. The light tanks couldn't take HEAT rounds – high explosive anti-tank – very well. Four left, all Oberons.

His radio crackled to life. "…ra two, this is…. ied, over."

Sepp seized on the incoming message. "This is Sierra 2, repeat that, over!"

Static. Someone in 14 yelled "FIRE". Sepp jolted. Bannon cursed. They'd probably missed.

For a moment the static cleared, and luckily whoever was trying to contact him spoke again. "Sierra 2, this is Lehmann, over. Most of the eggs… clear, get your boys…t of there! Over!"

Oh, thank sweet heaven. Sepp mused over the fact that Sigfried had chosen to use the codeword "eggs" but not his own personal codename of "Foxtrot 9". "Roger that, Sig. We're pulling, over."

He swapped channels. "Attention Team Whiskey, this is Sierra 2, disengage! I repeat, disengage! We've done enough. Head to grid…" he checked his on-screen map. "001-241."

Another round of responses, and even over the radio Sepp could hear the excited relief. He felt it too. If they stayed any longer they'd be chewed up.

Sepp ensured that Lokhande knew to keep the presumably undamaged side of the tank facing south, rather than the rear. Wouldn't do to be struck with a lucky shell in a weak spot. As the tank spun around and moved west, Sepp watched the Green Earth armor. Since he'd rallied his men, a couple Lynx had been destroyed, leaving five visible. He was sure there were more up in the camp now, securing the position. No sense in assaulting higher ground with inferior numbers.

The sense of relief and exhaustion in 14 was thick. The gunner twisted around and for the first time Sepp saw Bannon's face. He wasn't expecting the thick, light brown mustache, but he etched Bannon's features into his mind, ensuring he could spot his new gunner in an instant if need be.

Bannon smiled sadly. "Welcome to 14, sir."

Sepp nodded. "Good job guys. Commander Max himself couldn't have done it better."

"Not that the colonel would fit in a tank anyway, sir," Luthar chuckled. Sepp grinned. Yep, he sure felt at home. He guessed that's what the army did to you – made you a brother even to complete strangers. He would make sure he met Lokhande and commend him on his driving, once they stopped.

Whenever that would be. Twenty long miles stood between them and the remaining bits of Bravo Company. The Greens probably wouldn't pursue; Sepp hadn't seen evidence that their supply line was nearby, and since they'd unexpectedly blitzed the platoon, they were probably low on fuel.

Probably, anyway. As he relaxed, boxed up in the hull of tank number 14, Sepp once again found himself relying on that strange and difficult-to-define word: hope.

(())

Christoph plunged through the trees. Branches whipped at his face, leaves slapped coldly as he ran. It was all he could do. Putting as much distance between himself and the Green Earth forces governed his every thought and action. For a brief second he looked sideways at Sami, and it seemed that she felt the same way. Her eyes were whiter, and her mouth parted slightly. There was a fear there that had never occupied her before. It wasn't the fear of something about to occur, that one would feel if in anticipation of an event, but the faintest trace of instinctual fear; the fear of being caught, of being captured and killed. Or worse. There was always worse. It was those things, the things horrifying beyond death, that drove Christoph to flee, and he assumed drove Sami as well.

The fact that she showed that fear, even the minutest traces of it, only added to Christoph's. Not once had he seen of the Special Forces commander show hesitation or panic. It was very clear to him that the situation was most desperate.

And so they ran.

A branch snapped against his cheek as the undergrowth became deeper. There was wet. Was it moisture from the leaves, or was he bleeding? No time to determine which. He stumbled over a root, floundering, but caught his balance. Sami was a few strides ahead of him now, never turning to look back. Her combat boots pounded into the ground and threw up dirt into his face, but she deftly avoided all obstacles in her path.

Cannon fire sounded to their rear. Much too close for comfort, but what could they do? Christoph tried to push his legs ever faster while attempting to stay upright. The pack he'd grabbed slapped against his back. Another tank round exploded somewhere. He stumbled and fell. The ground rushed to meet him violently, smashing his nose and filling his mouth with dirt. He scrambled to recover.

Something grabbed the back of Christoph's shirt, and for a horrified moment he feared he'd been captured. But no, it was Sami. She heaved him up with a strength that contradicted the size of her arms.

"Keep moving," was all she said. Again he caught her eyes for a brief moment; now there was a sort of resignation. Maybe still a hint of fear, but it was impossible to be sure.

It wasn't cold but his jaw would have cracked itself from terror if he hadn't forced it to set. Luckily he'd had the foresight to also wear combat boots, and with some more luck, the laces wouldn't undo themselves. It seemed asinine to worry about it, at a time like that.

And so they ran.

He bounded over rocks and tree stumps, fueled by desperation. Christoph's senses narrowed; there was only his blind path, Sami's footfalls, and the pounding of his heart. A terrifying sensation clawed at him, like he was being pursued by some unseen and unknown monster.

They ran for what felt like hours, and perhaps it was. Christoph's adrenaline steadily faded. He began to feel the soreness in his muscles. His tongue was dry, hair disheveled. But they were still alive. The fighting was only heralded by brief flashes of light in the dying day and accompanying explosions. It seemed so far off, but the modern war machine moved with such speed that it was entirely possible it could overrun them at any time. Any more distance wouldn't really matter.

At some point their run became a jog, and eventually a shambling walk. Christoph's legs felt like deadweights. Finally, with little energy left, he slowed, swayed, and half-collapsed, choosing to make his refuge against a large boulder. His breathing came in heavy gasps. After a few moments he closed his eyes and struggled to control it: in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose…

He heard Sami slump down somewhere nearby. A groan escaped her. Some shuffling. Christoph blinked his eyes open, still breathing deeply, and saw her rummaging through her backpack. Not even taking time to rest.

Her face brightened, just a little, and that simple change in her demeanor calmed Christoph's thoughts, if only briefly. She produced two bottles of water from her pack, and tossed one to him. It bounded into his lap. This was good, very good. They had something, at least.

He picked it up and fumbled with the plastic cap. If he had anything resembling strength he was certain he'd have ripped it right off. He brought it up and as the first wave of water hit his tongue, he was quite certain it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. He let some flow down his chin, enjoying what little coolness it retained. Christoph drank greedily, finishing off all but the last half inch. This he splashed over his face. Dripping, he rubbed himself dry and saw that his hand came back red. _When had that happened?_

"Er, Commander…" was all he could manage. She looked at him briefly.

She swallowed her water. "Huh? Oh." She pointed to his pack. "You might have a first aid kit. Your right cheekbone."

He blinked, somehow unable to process this. "What?"

Fortunately, she seemed too preoccupied with her own water bottle to be frustrated with his inane question. She gulped a mouthful before responding. "A kit. Check your pack. Your cut is on your right cheek."

"Oh," he said simply. He was still dazed. He opened and felt around the pack; power cells, a flashlight, flares, some ration tins. At the darkened bottom was a metal first aid container, dulled with wear but still sporting a large red cross. Christoph retrieved it, opened it, and picked out some medical tape and a roll of gauze.

But instead of tending to his wound, he found himself watching Sami. The fear he'd seen earlier had vanished. Instead, she looked very relaxed, leaning against a tree trunk, one leg bent, the other resting on the ground. Unlike him, she was conserving her water, drinking only a little at a time. It somehow comforted him to at least have the illusion she no longer held any fear. Special Forces soldiers were Special Forces for a reason, and she was the best of them. He estimated that his chances of survival doubled with her around. He may have been able to work with tank squadrons and mobile artillery, to survive on the battlefield using combined arms methods, but he hated to admit that his knowledge of survival skills wasn't even half of Sami's. It was foolish and childlike to be jealous of that, especially out here with nowhere to go, no allies to turn to. HQ wasn't going to back them up. HQ was gone. HQ had been destroyed or captured by Green Earth.

HQ was gone. Max, Jake, Rachel… what had happened to them? Andy and Nell were safe on the eastern continent, working to rebuild after the second war. With luck they were safe. With luck they would come to their aid.

A million questions blazed through his mind in a fraction of a second. Who was behind the Green Earth attack? Had there been a coup? How the _hell_ did they attack Orange Star with no warning? Were the others safe, or captured? Divulging information already? Dead, buried, burned, incarcerated indefinitely? Would there be a counterassault? He could find no answers. The information Rachel had given them earlier seemed so insignificant now.

A voice cut through his musings. "You ok?" Christoph blinked again. Sami was looking at him, but not in a quizzical manner, as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind. In all likelihood, she was pondering the same questions – she just managed to hide it better.

"What? Yea." Bullshit. So few words between them. They'd simply run when the enemy soldiers overwhelmed the compound. "No."

"I know." She took another sip, let her head sag and closed her eyes, swishing the water around in her mouth. She spat it out and took another.

Christoph looked down to the gauze and tape in his hand. He ripped off a couple pieces of each, wiped away the excess blood on his face and fixed a bandage. It stung. Probably looked ridiculous, but who the fuck would care? Certainly didn't matter out in the wild, and with no idea where they were going, he wasn't going to take any chances of it getting infected.

Infected. The knowledge that they didn't have modern facilities because of what happened dawned on him at last. The facts had been running through his head for a while now, but they only made their impact just then.

"Shit, Commander, what the hell are we going to do?" he muttered, somewhere between a whisper and normal speech, hardly audible. It probably sounded like he was about to burst into tears, but he didn't care at that point. An Orange Star CO, crying in front of another. And it didn't even matter. But he stifled it.

Sami didn't raise her head or open her eyes for a few moments, clearly in deep thought. Then she copied Christoph's earlier actions and poured water into one cupped hand before splashing it across her face. Her red hair drooped.

"I don't know." Her voice was every bit as quiet and weak as his. She inhaled, her breath shuddering, squeezed her eyes shut, and let it out. Clearly, she felt as he did, but she too managed to avoid tears.

He started tentatively, "I guess… we should make a plan." It sounded stupid. It probably was stupid. What kind of plan was there to make?

"Something like that…" There was no comfort in her conduct now; she was scared like he was, and it was obvious. Shock was fading and realization setting in. It was evening. It felt very cold despite the warm weather.

Sami set her bottle on the ground and dragged her pack over. She cleared her throat. "I've got… six more water bottles, some rations, a compass… that's about it." She checked the front pocket, and retrieved two bundles of paper. "And some money. Orange Star and Blue Moon, it looks like. A lot of good the blue stuff will do us." She replaced the bright orange and faded blue bills before turning her face to him. "You?"

Christoph followed suit. "Food tins, a flashlight, batteries, flares, the first aid kit, and some flint and tinder." This last item he pulled out. "No good there. Can't be making a fire now."

Sami nodded in agreement, but he put them back anyway. One of the side pouches felt full, so he inspected that as well. He found an eight-inch army knife and leather holder. He slid the weapon out and brandished it. "This, however, could be very useful."

She smiled faintly. He didn't know if it was because it was a knife, or because it was a familiar tool for an infantry commander. No doubt she could use it. "You keep it." Sami patted her right hip. "I still have my pistol."

He grunted and fastened the knife pouch to his belt. He'd read somewhere that you could never have too many knives.

Sami closed her pack and stood slowly. Her field of view swept their environment, shifting over the rocks and trees. She sighed and stretched up, then bent at the waist and reached effortlessly to her feet. Christoph stretched regularly as well, but more out of sport and health. She did it for necessity, as any infantry(wo)man should. She then turned and braced both hands against the tree to stretch her calves. It was decidedly hard to avoid watching her, but he managed. Instead, he inspected his new weapon.

"I heard somewhere you can never have too many knives. Any truth to that, Commander?" he related to her.

She looked up, still angled against the tree. After a moment, she responded. "What if you're swimming, and all that metal weighs you down?"

He frowned. "Good point." With her comment, he was certain that at least once before they returned to civilization, Sami would be instrumental in saving his life.

"And Captain?"

Christoph raised his head. "Yes, Commander?"

"No need for formalities out here. Call me Sami."

"Right. Sami." Was she trying to be friendly? Attempting to dispel the dark mood that had settled over both of them? Or was it for survival's sake, in the event they ran across Green Earth soldiers? Probably a combination of all three. Or at least the latter two.

Christoph craned his neck left. The double silver bars of his Captain's patch, which he'd received before the meeting, were glaringly obvious. He took a hold of it and pulled. It ripped but didn't come loose. He tugged again, harder, and it came away in his hand. He did the same for his other shoulder. Then he set his empty bottle down, propped himself on his knees, and dug a small hole in the dirt to bury the rank insignias.

They had no one to rely on, save each other. _Take no chances_, he intoned silently.

_Take no chances._


	5. If War is Bitter, Solace is Foul

The sudden radiance was unwelcome. Sami felt the beam of sunlight flicker through the eastern flora and catch her square in one eye. She suppressed the urge to curse and tilted her head away in a doomed effort to retain the last remnants of sleep. It was too late. She'd been drifting in and out for a half hour already, and there was little chance she would find any more rest. The sun was a hard guest to refuse.

Her instinct was to try anyway. She hardly felt well-rested: everything ached, especially her legs. She sighed noiselessly but refused to open her eyes. Eventually she would have to move. A pity, really. Sometimes she almost favored the hard bed of earth to a soft mattress. A relic of her days in the infantry, a penchant grown soft with the very different burden of command. Though, she supposed, that period of time wasn't too far in the past. A few years at the most. Some corner of her mind independently pondered that thought. Lieutenant Colonel in her mid-twenties. _What a climb._

Finally, if grudgingly, Sami returned to the real world, cracking one lid open, then the other. She secretly wished that yesterday's events had been a dream, an illusion, but the ever-dominant rational side of her applied _realpolitik_ to the situation. The swaying tree canopy was still brown in the early morning light. A bird chirped, more evidence of reality. It was perhaps 0600 hours or so. She sighed again in submission, a little louder, a little longer.

Sami dug both elbows into the dirt and sat halfway up, absorbing her surroundings, her soldier's premonitions kicking in. Nothing looked disturbed. No fresh tracks, human or otherwise. A truck growled in the distance but it wasn't nearly close enough to give a second thought. It was the best possible start to a day that easily ranked near the bottom of her long list of wartime experiences. Near the bottom not because she anticipated running into trouble, but because of what the day signified.

But she pushed the thought away and sat up fully, crossing her legs. She stretched her back, the bones loosing a couple pops, and looked to her right. Christoph slept a few feet away, back turned to her, still dead to the world, his backpack bundled up in a makeshift pillow. Sami had done the same with her own pack. They weren't terribly comfortable but it wasn't as though they'd had a choice. You had to take what you were offered sometimes. That was life.

She wavered over waking Christoph and ultimately decided to give him a few more minutes. As an army man, he was in decent shape, but probably not as well off as her. Tankers went through boot camp just like everyone else, but most infantry figured they had the easy job, as without their own personal vehicles, they didn't _have_ a job. Sami knew being a tanker had its own risks, though. Sure, one was protected from small arms and the threats of NBC warfare, but she didn't envy the idea of scrambling to escape a burning metal box. No, she preferred her line of work.

The stereotypes assigned to armor soldiers – impetuous, overconfident, and arrogant – were also notions that the nonmounted pieces of the OSA held, just like how the majority of the OSA viewed the Air Force. But Christoph didn't seem to quite conform to those standards. Sure, he acted too formal, and sure, he needed to relax a bit, but overall Sami concluded he wasn't half bad, for a tanker. He had combat experience, and that she could respect. It'd honestly been why she'd grabbed him when they'd tried for HQ's radio station.

Sami retrieved her sweatband and slipped it over her forehead, ensuring it kept her hair from falling in front of her face. Then she leaned forward and re-laced her boots. She'd worn them overnight, in case they awoke to advancing Green Earth troops. Depending on how long they hid for, though, they couldn't do that all the time. Trench foot was enough of a concern even in the late summer weather. Sooner or later they would have to swap standing guard.

She stood carefully, stretched again, and adjusted her outfit. She found herself wishing she had a watch. The sun provided enough clues to judge the approximate time, but it wasn't the best tool.

There was little to do. Sami turned and squatted, grasping her backpack and unzipping it again. She reviewed the contents, counting the ration tins. Eight. Depending on how many Christoph's pack held, and how careful they were, they could last for almost a week. Sami really didn't want to be out there for a week, though. For some reason her preeminent thought after their survival was how they would both _smell_ after that long a time. It wasn't a pleasant idea.

She stood and again directed her attention to Christoph. He'd had his extra minutes. She took a couple steps over and prodded him with the tip of one boot.

"It's sunup. Time to get moving."

No response. They'd both had about six hours of sleep, as the night before they'd walked until it had become to dark to see.

"Captai-" she stopped short, remembering her suggestion that he call her by name. Well, they might as well make it mutual. "Christoph, come on, up and at 'em." She tapped him again, this time with a little force.

Christoph emitted something between a grunt and passable speech. He twisted slowly, blinking in the dim morning, and mumbled.

Sami turned away and reached for her pack again, this time pulling it up and over one shoulder. "What was that?"

His voice scratched, "I said, good morning." He rotated and sat up, bending his knees and resting his arms. He gazed about as if the trees and grass bemused him, and yawned. "What time is it?"

Didn't he have a watch? Sami glanced at his wrist and saw none. Probably lost it. She slipped her other arm around the second strap, then stood straight and bounced once to settle the backpack properly. "About six AM, give or take."

Christoph hawked unpleasantly and spat the contents on the ground. It didn't really bother Sami, but she hadn't expected that kind of conduct from him. She figured he was the prim-and-proper sort. Whatever. She didn't care, and there was no one else to take offense.

The Captain laced his own boots and dragged himself to his feet. He looked older than he actually was. The events of yesterday had shaken him, that much Sami could detect. They'd shaken her too. She'd almost cried out of frustration and shock. What a way that would've been to demonstrate her psyche to a new CO.

Her memories of it were only snapshots now, though. Rushed photographs taken at inappropriate times, reminding her of the battle.

The defeat, she corrected herself. A bloody, pointless defeat that she should've seen coming. Shooting the Green Earth soldier had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done. That man was once an ally, a friend to Orange Star. Given the chance Sami would have probably found a lot in common with him. She recalled almost _not_ pulling the trigger, but her inner soldier took over and did it anyway. All at once she'd felt grief and satisfaction. A horrible and necessary act, both inhumane and professional.

"Sami? Commander?"

She shook her head and pushed some hair from her face. Christoph's bag hung from his back, ready to move. He looked at her blankly.

She ignored his questioning tone. "What did I say about titles?"

One corner of his mouth tugged, almost into a smirk. "Sorry. Sami."

She waved it off. "It's fine. Let's go."

As she trudged away, he followed. "Which way we headed?"

"Southeast. Fort Iams is about twenty miles from here, and barring that, we can shoot for Dorton City.

"Dorton's fifty miles," Christoph said matter-of-factly.

"I know." She left her answer at that. There was no need to discuss how difficult that trip would be, especially if the territory in between was privy to Green Earth. Christoph was a native of Omega Land, he knew the distances involved. Sami just had the numbers in her head. She wasn't familiar enough with the area to really get the miles into perspective. On paper a healthy, trained individual could walk ten or fifteen miles in a day. They were both healthy, yes, but the terrain wouldn't be favorable for simple hike. And there was no telling how many detours they would have to take.

"If it comes to it," he informed her, "we should head north around Fort Iams, not south. It's longer but south'll take us through swampland."

Sami glanced over her shoulder as she walked. "Well, it looks like bringing you along turned out to be a good decision."

Christoph's brow furrowed, but then he understood she was joking. This time he couldn't suppress the grin. "That's nice to know, Comma – Sami."

She returned to her path. Positive thinking was crucial. It would keep them alive and moving as much as their packaged food.

(())

The foliage and rocks weren't helping things. In fact, Sami felt that both were only becoming more troublesome as time passed. If it wasn't for the occasional undertone of far-off vehicle traffic, she would've felt certain they were smack in the middle of a nature reserve, abandoned by their fellow man. She knew they would only meet civilization once they exited the wood.

She stepped carefully, ensuring each bootfall found a solid surface on the jagged stone. The most important thing right now was to evade rolling or breaking an ankle in between the damned boulders. It was as if heaven itself had set them on the worst possible trail for such a tame wilderness.

She reached out and grasped a protruding rock edge to pull herself along. _One hand over the other, one foot in front of the next. Steady_. Sami continued, mechanically picking out ledges and points on the uphill slope, following each choice with a palm or sole. It wasn't very steep, but the natural obstacles made up for any energy that would've been saved.

It could've been worse. The sun _could_ have been in their eyes, or one of them _could_ have placed a hand in some angry critter's nest. It could always be worse, Sami reminded herself.

But before she knew it, she was at the top. One last push set her boot on solid dirt again. Then the other. She straightened out of her cramped climbing position and was joyously relieved of her growing backache. She looked east, and was further rewarded by the sight of a gradual, downward grade. It was suitable recompense for her labors.

Sami palmed her neck and wiped away a light sheen of moisture, then craned her head back over the edge of the rocky incline. Christoph was about ten feet down, the gloss on his forehead clearly demonstrating his profuse sweating. But he hadn't complained yet. _More kudos to him._ She eyed him as he scaled the remaining rocks and reached the end, mouth screwed up with effort and air whistling through his nose.

Christoph breached the top and rested his hands on his knees momentarily, still breathing. "Hoo… that was… more difficult than I imagined it'd be…"

"You tankers don't do much jogging, do you?"

He drew himself upright, inhaling deeply, and retrieved his water bottle from his uniform pocket. "Not enough, it seems." He uncapped the drink and took a swig, then replaced the top.

"You aren't tired." It was more a statement than a question.

Sami debated her response. Her muscles were fatigued, calves especially so, but she wasn't winded. She settled on a shrug. "Kind of." Her water could wait, for a bit at least.

He slouched unhappily. "I need a break. I'm not Special Ops."

Sami looked up to the blue and white. It was midday, perhaps. They'd slept through last night but that was only because of fatigue and shock. The best course of action would be to stay put during the day and move from sundown to sunup. They had a compass to keep their bearing, and break wouldn't hurt. Maybe a longer break, until darkness fell.

"Alright. We'll set up at the bottom of this hill, where the brush is thicker."

Christoph was plainly relieved. They wandered down and chose a copsed area. _Set up?_ Poor choice of words. There wasn't anything to set up. They tossed their packs to the ground. Christoph plopped down.

Sami remained standing. "I'm going to scout the area."

Christoph only nodded mutely.

She left him and went through a practiced routine. She walked a few dozen feet out, pragmatically examining her environment. She noted the best possible escape routes, which directions to avoid, the density of the soil, how obvious her tracks were; everything a Special Forces soldier was supposed to do. She did all this with one hand ever-ready to draw her pistol. Chance was something to be circumvented. Risks were for the generals to take. She wasn't one yet, and she never gambled with her own life or the lives of her men.

There wasn't much to see. After some time she returned to their makeshift camp. Christoph had claimed an open ration tin and was in the process of finishing off its contents. They'd eaten a half tin each earlier. Sami didn't know _what_ was in the tins, and wasn't compelled to check the label or date.

She sat cross-legged across from him and searched her pack for her own food, finding the remains of breakfast. She had no appetite, but ate anyway. The tiny plastic spoon affixed to the side offered some semblance of society. Grateful for that, at least.

Neither spoke. There was only the gentle tinking of ration tins, the rustling of the trees in the mild wind, sporadic bird calls. That was what their trek had been like, mostly. Little speech. Mostly spoken to ensure the other was still alive, still moving. Words of encouragement here and there. Jibes and comments to keep spirits from plummeting. That was all. There was nothing to say. With no news of the outside world, the last piece of human contact they knew was their escape from headquarters. It wasn't the best sendoff, and no matter what Sami said to Christoph or he to her, those fresh, vivid memories were always right at the forefront of their thoughts. That was how Sami felt, at least. It wasn't unreasonable to assume Christoph did too.

The Captain buried his empty tin and spoon under a brush. The safest way to dispose of it, if not the greenest. Less weight, less evidence.

"Sorry."

Sami glanced up from her pitiful meal. Christoph was looking at the ground, knees bent. "Hm?"

It was awhile before he spoke again. "You know Max well, right? Rachel and Jake?"

What was he getting at? "Yes."

He didn't answer immediately. Then: "I don't know the latter two at all. Max, we've been friends for some time. Since a couple months into the war. You've known him for a lot longer, I guess." He paused again. "This new war must hit you harder than it hits me."

Sami set her container on the ground. This she could not deny. "Yes. It does. But there's no point in dwelling on it now. Not with our situation."

Christoph barked a single, choking laugh. "I wish I could do that. Handwave it all away until the appropriate time, y'know? Where'd you learn that trick?"

Sami knew he wasn't trying to be insulting, but her features scrunched anyway. "It comes with the job."

They both fell silent. People said things the wrong way, when under too much stress. She couldn't help but feel a bit ticked, though. The army was her life, and she'd acquired the necessary skills to survive and advance in it, during bloody wars in a bloody time. It hadn't made her cold. Had it?

A revelation surfaced amongst the thousands running in her mind. "You lied, didn't you? In the mess hall?"

But his answer was unanticipated. "Yes." Straightforward, honest.

"Why?"

Christoph's brown eyes flickered up. "I didn't cross my mind that I'd lied. I didn't consider them people. Black Hole. They were all faceless goons that tore up this land for their own damn pleasure. Yes, I've killed a man. He was right there, just like you are relative to me right now, and I shot him. He didn't have a chance. He was actually trying to surrender. He was _crawling away_, and I shot him right through the head. And the worst fear I had after I'd done it was that _my superiors would find out_." He laughed again, dryly. "Imagine that. I killed someone in cold blood and all I cared about was my own ass."

Sami watched him express a myriad of feelings in an equal number of seconds. She wanted to tell him that she could relate. That shooting the Green Earth soldier secretly screamed _murder_. That it felt like she was hurting one person specifically, someone very dear to her. She owed that individual her life during the second war, and she'd repaid him by killing his countrymen. It was an irrational feeling but one she could not let go. Either out of juvenile fear or embarrassment, she didn't say it.

"Your file – it had your history in it. I don't know if what happened to your hometown justifies your actions, but…"

"It really doesn't," Christoph blurted. "Yea, the town was razed, but my family got out. I'm not gonna pretend like it validates what I did. I'm not some angsty character in a lame-ass novel. Honestly? It didn't bother me all that much when it happened. The deaths were just numbers."

Christoph caught her eyes for a split second. Then he shook his head. "Sorry, I'm ranting. I just… I feel way in over my head right about now."

"Like I said, Christoph. You chose a bad time to be promoted." Sometimes people just needed to be heard out. Sami had seen three wars, and fought all of them. She'd been on the front lines in God knows how many border skirmishes with Blue Moon. She'd seen a lot of things, and was prepared for those things if they happened again. Christoph wasn't.

The stillness returned. Sami allowed her trash to be consumed by the earth, ensuring the dirt remained as inconspicuous as possible. She longed to start a fire, just for something to do, but it was out of the question. Smoke was _very_ conspicuous.

So there was little to do. Sami peered into the dirt, inspecting individual brown granules, as though they held the key to life and the universe. Or maybe a miracle to get them out of their predicament. They could definitely use a miracle, the way things were going.

Christoph perked his head. He peered into the undergrowth. "Did you…?"

Sami reacted impulsively, instantly sending every sense on alert. Had she missed something? She'd let het guard down so briefly, getting caught up in her own thoughts and feelings. _Stupid!_ She listened attentively, probing the air.

Nothing.

Then, crunching leaves.

_Shit_. Frozen on the spot, Sami strained to identify a clue, a hint that would disclose to her who the footsteps belonged to. Disembodied voices obliged. She didn't know what they were saying, only that they were getting closer. And there was more than one.

As covertly as possible, Sami unfolded her legs and lay stomach-down, meeting Christoph's widening eyes. He duplicated her and smoothly relocated his backpack, placing it under a bush. _Good idea_. She did the same.

She inched forward, not daring to crawl any faster than a snail's pace, forearm over forearm. She strained to catch a glimpse through the bush. Movement. As she wriggled closer three figures came into partial view, half-obscured by the brushwood. Some small part of her found time to wish her hair wasn't so solidly_ red_.

The figures were about twenty strides or so off, moving closer. Infantry. Their attire was not unfamiliar but it didn't match Orange Star. Light rifles. Mixed pine and dark green combat gear, tinged with brown. Green Earth. When they spoke again it sealed her conclusion. Her Erdsprech was terrible but she knew enough to confirm her observations.

As she watched the three exchanged words. One of them snickered, then threw what Sami assumed was a friendly insult. A round of laughter. Then the man turned and retraced the group's steps while the other two continued past Sami's hiding spot, into another group of trees.

Gears worked in Sami's head as she strove for a solution. This was clearly a patrol, either sent to round up survivors after the headquarters ordeal, or a scouting party ahead of a main force. Neither option was reassuring. Whatever she and Christoph did there would be risks. If they hid, the patrol might pass them up. It might not.

She crawled back and motioned Christoph over. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a look of worry written on his face. He wouldn't like what she was about to tell him.

"_Green Earth patrol. They've split up, we don't have much time," _Sami whispered. She pointed off. _"You go left. There's a single soldier. Take him out. I'll deal with the other two."_ With that she drew the handgun and clicked the safety off. _"Got it?"_

Christoph licked his lips and swallowed. His breath was shallow. _Don't hyperventilate now, _Sami pleaded silently. But he nodded, and fumbled for his knife.

"_You know how to use that?"_

Christoph blinked at his weapon and swapped his grip, blade down and parallel with his wrist. He nodded again. _Good. He has an idea_. _"Do what you have to do,"_ she said, then rolled away and smoothly transitioned into a crouch.

(())

Christoph watched Sami disappear behind a fallen tree. He fought to control his breathing. _Dear Lord, what are we doing?_ They were going to kill the patrol. It seemed straight from a movie script, but they were going to do it. Damn that woman. Sure, he'd take out his target, if he had an _Oberon_. But Sami'd neglected to offer him one, and the Greenies hadn't brought their own.

He looked nervously to the knife again, trying to recall his hand-to-hand combat training. He could go through the motions but he'd never been forced to use it. He'd done some martial arts when he was younger. Not much. Guess he would have to improvise.

It was stupid. She'd just pointed into the woods. How was he supposed to find the guy? But Sami was already gone, and if he didn't do his task, it could mean both their lives. Christoph bit his lip and rose, keeping his head low. He listened for Sami and the two soldiers she set after. Nothing.

Carefully avoiding scattered leaves and branches, he padded as softly as his army boots would allow. His heart was pumping fast now, eyes and ears throbbing. His mouth was going dry. He tried to summon spit but failed. One foot down, then the next, then the next. Scanning the brush and trees, he saw no one. Then someone whistled.

Christoph stopped dead. The whistling flowed into a casual, toneless melody. It wasn't Sami, obviously. Christoph pressed his back to a tree trunk and slunk sideways around it.

A single soldier, back turned to Christoph's position. He watched as the soldier set his rifle down against a stump and fool with the front of his gear. Christoph couldn't tell what he was doing.

The sound of splashing told him more than he needed to know. The man couldn't have waited until he returned to camp to piss.

Now was the time, Christoph decided somewhat brashly. He wouldn't get a better chance. The infantryman's gun wasn't in his hands. He crept from the tree, knife ready, staying low. His shadow wouldn't cross the man's field of view. _Slice the neck. Too much body armor for a torso shot._ Holy hell, he was going to kill this man. He wished he'd removed his boots, but it was too late now. The strangest things popped across his mind at the most inconvenient times.

The Greenie still whistled as he relieved himself on a cluster of anthills. Christoph thanked someone upstairs for compelling this man to drink a ton of whatever he'd had. He closed the distance, right hand clutching his knife, knuckles bone white. Twelve feet. His breath quickened, vision narrowed. There were only his footfalls and his weapon and the man he was hell-bent on slicing open. _Six feet_.

A gunshot cracked. The Green jerked his head in the direction of the noise, mouth an "O" of surprise.

_Fuck!_

Christoph sprinted madly. Now the Greenie saw him, eyes widening in shock. He yelled something in Erdsprech and reached for his rifle. He never made it. Christoph crashed into him full-body, sending them both sprawling. Arms flailed. He was on top. Christoph felt a sweaty palm on his face, fingers clawing at his eyes. He tilted his head back and stabbed randomly, meeting nothing but air and dirt and helmet. A hand caught his wrist. In turn he seized the hand clawing his face and bent the fingers back. The Green yelped.

He had the advantage. He kept the offending hand away from his orifices and leaned down, pushing his knife arm with all his strength and weight. Sweat clouded his vision. He couldn't make out his enemy's face but saw a general outline. Christoph grunted and forced the blade ever farther, aiming for the neck. The Green's own muscle was comparable but gravity was against him. The man's arm gradually gave way. Not fast enough. Christoph kneed him in the groin, then pinned his legs. A groan.

He couldn't see. Didn't matter. He pushed, and pushed. Resistance. Then his knife hand was suddenly warm.

Just like that it was over. The soldier's strength faded, his grip on Christoph's wrist slackening. His other hand fell away. Christoph blinked and wiped away the wet from his eyes, breathless.

He wasn't sure he'd ever seen so much blood in his life. His hand and knife and sleeve were stained a deep red. It still bubbled from the dying man's neck. His throat surged and his eyes twitched. Then he lay still.

Sweat dropped from Christoph's brow, falling onto the dead man. Blood still flowed, selfishly devoured by the earth. There was too much. A small, thick puddle formed.

Christoph let up and leaned back. He was shaking. His armpits were soaked. He wasn't sure if he'd soiled himself or not. _This is not the Armor_, he thought. _This is what the infantry do and it is very, very real._

He looked at the body again, bewildered. Then sickened. Then horrified. He jerked upright and stepped back, as though the body carried the plague. Red spattered to the ground. He'd done this. He'd done this and he'd done the same thing to the Black Hole soldier. This was exactly what had happened to the Orange Star men at headquarters, too. Only this was messier. _Oh, God._

But it was so… _easy_. Just a cut across the neck. He'd envisioned the slaughter of another human being as difficult, as something he would be physically incapable of performing. The events replayed behind his eyes without his consent as evidence of his act. Gunshot. Sprint. Tackle. Struggle. Stab. Blood.

Gunshot.

_Gunshot_.

One gunshot. Sami had gone after two men.

(())

Sami stalked her prey. A strange choice of words, but it seemed appropriate. They ambled slowly, talking between themselves. Something about women. They snickered. _Typical._

She followed from a safe distance, behind cover, crouching the whole way. Her quads burned with the effort but she ignored the discomfort. The pistol was always trained on the closest target. She had to find the proper moment to strike. There could be no mistakes. She would have to close within a dozen meters or less to get a clean headshot.

They stopped. One muttered to the other. A response. Then a retort. They both burst out laughing. _Rookies or assholes, one of the two. Unfit for duty_. She remembered using the same phrase, _unfit for duty_, when describing someone who was now a close friend. That'd been her first reaction to him…

_No. Stay focused_. They didn't seem immediately concerned with continuing their patrol, and they were distracted as it was. Sami moved in, stepping cautiously. One of the men tripped over his words and tried to relate another clever joke to his companion. He wheezed as he finished, sending them both into another fit of mirth. The farther one leaned on his rifle to avoid falling over.

Sami moved ever closer. The sights on her pistol were aimed right for the closer man's head, below the helmet line. It would be difficult, given the accuracy of the gun, but she could do it. She had to do it. If Christoph was halfway competent, the third man would already be dead, and there was no turning back.

They were still immobilized by their self-produced humor. _No time like the present_. She took a final few steps, steadied herself about ten meters from the duo, and curled her trigger finger.

_Crack!_

The bullet buried itself straight and true at the base of the first man's skull. She quickly shifted targets and pulled the trigger a second time. Nothing happened. Professional assessment: jammed.

There was no time to worry about it. Instinct kicked in and Sami rushed forward, keeping the second soldier in her line of fire. He looked confused as to why there were bits of blood on his face, and why his friend had suddenly decided to take a nap on the forest floor.

He noticed Sami's approach. More like he noticed the barrel of her handgun staring at him. All he knew, Sami hoped, was that she'd killed one man and decided to let the second live. His rifle was in one hand but he was in no position to fire it.

"_Don't move,"_ she hissed, putting on her most fearsome mask. He complied, voluntarily or not, frozen in place out of fear or surprise. Sami liked to think it was the former. Fear was more powerful, not that surprise wasn't powerful on its own.

"On your knees. Now!" she barked. Again he followed his orders, slowly adopting a position of surrender, arms bent and hands in the air. He was young, younger than she, Sami noted. He said something in Erdsprech, voice quivering.

"Be quiet, or I _will_ shoot you." She didn't know if he understood her language, but her tone conveyed a clear message. He clamped his mouth shut. His jaw, though, rattled audibly. Sami kicked the rifle away and kept her eyes locked on the scout. She stepped forward, nudging his helmet and placing the cold steel against his head. If she pulled the trigger again, and it didn't fire… then he wouldn't be so easily controlled.

The young man smelled of fear. His eyes flashed between the gun and Sami. Mostly the gun. He was hardly a man, Sami contemplated. More like a boy. Nineteen, at the oldest. Probably drafted to fight in the desperate Black Hole wars. Probably thought he'd be going home, with the Bolt Guard defeated and gone. Probably didn't want to have a damn thing to do with this whole new mess. Maybe had a girl waiting for him. A proud mother and father, back in Ulms or some other Green Earth city, parents who'd sent their brave son off to war, to fight in the name of the country.

Images of the headquarters battle came back to her. For some reason she connected this soldier's face with the one she'd killed. _Goddamnit._ Her lips trembled in frustration. _Not again. I don't want to do this again. Why can't I do this again? Because it would betray _him_ and his honor._

She gradually found herself fighting for control. All these ideas were unwelcome. Unwelcome and disruptive. She had to stop them, or they would cloud her judgment. A soldier did not become personally involved in the execution of her job. But she couldn't risk attempting to shoot him. She didn't want to shoot him. She couldn't shoot him. Every fiber of her entire being at once tensed to pull the trigger and restrained her from doing so.

_Fuck it all._

She snarled and slammed the butt of the pistol against his temple. The boy slumped like a rag doll. He wasn't dead. Not yet. But he'd be out for a good while. Sami panted as she lowered her gun. She hadn't meant to do that. But she hadn't killed him either. He looked strange strapped up in all that death dealing equipment. Grenades and bullets. No place on the attire of someone so young.

Sami wasn't sure how long she stood there. Nothing made sense anymore. How had she been able to kill so effortlessly in the past? During the Blue Moon skirmishes? The Black Hole wars? And now she couldn't do it to a single man, someone whose life honestly didn't matter in the long run.

_The deaths were just numbers._

Christoph's words rang both true and false. Before they were numbers. Kill counts, racked up to further Sami's career. Defend the nation and all that jazz. But the very face of this boy proved an impossible barrier to overcome. _Why?_

She struggled for alternate answers but all trains of thought looped back to one. _Him._ _He did this to me. Eagle. This war turned everything on its head. Suddenly my job is to kill those who represent him and I can't do it._

Everything went fuzzy. It took a minute to understand it was because she was crying.

(())

"Be quiet, or I _will_ shoot you."

Definitely Sami, somewhere over to his right. Christoph compelled his worn limbs to propel him forth. He couldn't feel his hand all that well. Didn't help that he was still gripping his knife like it was the cure for cancer. Where was he? Where was Sami?

Whoever she was speaking to obeyed and stopped his whimpering. There were no other sounds to guide Christoph for a fraction of a minute. He wandered on what he thought was the proper route.

_Whump._ _Crumple_. The only words he could ascribe to what he heard. They gave Christoph a bearing. He followed his auditory senses, emerging into a small clearing.

Two bodies. Neither hers, thankfully. No, the person standing was Sami. Her top and khakis had at some point been stained with streaks of dirt and grass, elbows and forearms similarly discolored. Hair tousled. No blood. Physically she looked fine.

When she didn't react to his presence, Christoph stopped. She gazed without emotion at the man she'd presumably just killed. Christoph swore he saw a tear run down her cheek, but it could just as easily have been his own sweat. He shoved hair from his eyes and mopped his face with his clean hand.

"Sami? Hey."

He found himself examining from a distance the caliber of her pistol, and his heart skipped a beat. "Sami – hey, it's Christoph. We got 'em. They're dead." He gulped nervously. "You can put the gun down."

Slowly the weapon dropped and Christoph thanked heaven for saving him from an untimely death. "I – sorry," she apologized. She wasn't all there, judging from her tenor. She put her pistol away and wiped her eyes with the fresh side of one arm.

"It's cool…" He noticed the chest of one of the men rising and falling. He pointed. "He's not dead."

"I know. Tie him up. He's got wire on his belt." She turned away hurriedly, to attend the other body.

Christoph plodded over to the living man. He knelt and set the knife down a safe distance away. He found the wire. When he tried to roll the comatose subject over, his gear only got in the way.

That stuff could be mighty useful. "Sami, do you think we should take some of their things? Body armor, maybe?"

She paused, still faced away. "Sure. Yea."

It struck him as odd that she hadn't suggested it. He unstrapped the soldier's body armor and gauged its weight. Fairly light. Designed for scouting parties. Shouldn't weigh them down too much. He set it aside and scrounged whatever else he could. A couple energy bars, but nothing close to rations. Probably meant the main force was nearby. Not a good sign.

Christoph almost smiled; he was getting decent at this survival stuff. There was a lot one could determine from someone's belongings.

He did a once-over of the man and, deciding there was nothing else worth taking, strung the wire around his wrists and ankles. For good measure he removed the grenades from his belt and bound his torso too. He remembered a couple decent knots from his dad's teachings, and now they were coming in handy. Then he collected the armor and bars and headed for the man's rifle. It wasn't much more than a submachine gun. Relatively light. As he picked it up a newfound elation seemed to spread from the gun's handle into his very core. This was better, much better. He turned to Sami. "Anything useful?"

She wasn't searching, though. In fact, she was just crouching there, bent over the dead man, hands dangling. In one she held her sweatband.

He took a couple steps over, bundling the armor under one arm. "Sami? You ok?" As he reached out he remembered his bloody hand and sleeve. He froze, arm suspended.

She looked over her shoulder. She seemed a little different without her sweatband on. "Yea, I'm fine," she said quietly, quieter than was necessary. She saw his stained limb. "Did you have any trouble?"

Christoph examined his fingers. "No…" A quite literal marker of his deeds. _Blood on my hands… except now it's there for all to see._

Sami returned to the corpse and this time stripped it of its possessions, namely the body armor and power bars. "There's no point in… burying the bodies. They'll find the live one anyway."

Christoph looked at the soldier she was referring to. "We're letting him live?"

"Yes."

_What happened to 'do what you have to do?'_ A strange turn of events. Christoph shrugged. Whether the man lived or not was no longer a concern of his. Survival was. He'd done what he had to do. One less Green in the world. He knew, humanly, he should have experienced some remorse. But the feeling was absent.

(())

Sepp's head pounded. His bandages itched. His chest stung from all the antiseptic applied to his wounds. Come to think of it, his was dizzy too. Dizziness and a headache wasn't a great combo. Major Kullins' droning only piled on the agony.

He struggled to focus. Where was he again? Oh, right. Going over _plans_. Over _strategies_ with Major Frederick Kullins and his merry band of misfits. Telling them how they shouldn't _overextend_ their forces, how they should plan _conservatively._ Fan-fucking-tastic. What a dumbass word, conservative. Politicians who called themselves conservative never followed the name, and in the real world acting _conservative_ was a shit idea. He felt the unreasonable urge to punch someone. If the inventor of the word _conservative_ was available to be punched, he'd have no qualms about it. Sepp wrung his uniformed shoulders. He'd punch the inventor of uniforms too. Hated them. They were way too constraining.

It was just their fucking luck they'd lost contact with HQ. No one knew where the chief COs were. There'd been so much confusion after communications had been cut that it was impossible to find out. That'd been shitty news to come back to when Sepp and his tanks reached Bravo Company in the dead of night. Without Colonel Max to lead the battalion, Major Kullins felt it was his honor-bound duty to assume command. No one opposed him because, well, no one outranked him. There were no lieutenant colonels to sub for Max. So the stuffy, by-the-book, backwater _Major Kullins_ was the only option available.

"Is something _boring_ you, Lieutenant Lee?"

Without missing a beat, Sepp answered. "No sir, I'm just woozy from all the meds your docs put me on." No one dared laugh. No one ever crossed Major Kullins. Unless they were Sepp Lee, apparently.

The Major's black eyes bored into Sepp's sockets, and it _physically hurt_. His cropped black-gray widow's peak seemed to direct his stuck-up wrath, and his brow folded in contempt. "Well, _Lieutenant_, if you would like to bow out of our little discussion and nurse your scratches with a box of bandaids, please feel free. Otherwise," he slammed a fist down on the planning table, shaking it and startling at least one person who had dozed off, "PAY FUCKING ATTENTION."

"Yessir, no questions about it, sir," Sepp said, carefully treading the line between irony and serious affirmation. To his credit, he _was_ paying attention. He just disagreed with everything Major Kullins was saying. Silently, of course.

"Excellent. Now that _Lieutenant Lee_ has so_ kindly_ allowed us to continue," Major Kullins said as he unrolled one side of the map for the umpteenth time, "let us get back to the matter at hand." The Major adjusted his row of pocket medals and poked a gray spot on the chart with a craggy finger. "The city of Calciki is virtually in the hands of the enemy. It had no proper defenders, as we had entrusted its very protection to Green Earth. This was a poor decision, and I vehemently objected to it when Commanding General _Rachel_ suggested it in the first place." He spoke the CG's name with venom. It was no secret that Kullins hated younger higher-ups, especially when they outranked him.

His finger traced about eighteen miles south. "The Green Earth forces struck the 3rd Armored Platoon of Bravo Company at 1800 hours, yesterday. This event was an utter _rout_ and a disgrace for First Lieutenant Jorn, who was not even _present_ to administer a proper withdraw. As a result, eleven of the platoon's Oberons were destroyed, as well as two armored personnel carriers and a reconnaissance unit." He scanned his crowd of faces. Mostly lieutenants. Some captains. "This is something I do not expect any of you to replicate. I will not tolerate failure of such magnitude."

Some nods. No vocal acknowledgement, though.

"Fort Iams may fall under attack, but it is not under my jurisdiction. That is the responsibility of Captain Jake, who is also missing and presumed _killed in action_."

Bullshit. Yea, missing, but a good number of troops had made it out of headquarters before it was overrun. They'd scattered: some had come northwest, to Bravo Company. Most of the others probably went east, towards Fort Iams or Dorton City. There was a solid chance Colonel Max and Christoph were still alive, along with the other big names.

"Our plan," the Major continued, "is to secure what we have. The enemy has driven a wedge between our forces and those in the east, via their assault on headquarters." More bullshit. It almost smelled. They could send aid to Fort Iams if they so chose, Major Kullins just didn't want to.

"Bravo Company will remain here, as it is currently _undermanned _with the effective crippling of the 3rd Armored Platoon. It will prevent Green Earth forces from widening the gap. Second Lieutenant Romana DuBois will be its acting Captain."

Sepp looked to Roma, who stood across from Major Kullins. She displayed nothing at her temporary promotion. In fact, it was possible that she wasn't paying attention either. Though a stickler for procedure and rank, Roma wasn't one of the few who respected the Major for his tactical prowess.

"I will be taking charge of Charlie and Echo Companies and relocating southwest, where we will fortify Withersburg and disrupt the enemy's plans for that area."

_The enemy's plans?_ There was nothing of strategic value in Withersburg. It was an old city, dilapidated and past its prime. The only _plans_ Green Earth had for it probably involved a feint and a trap. Sepp would almost be happy to let Major Kullins march his way down there and have his oversized head blown clean off. If he wasn't taking four hundred men with him.

"Now. Are there _any questions?_" He looked straight at Sepp, as if daring him to speak. Sepp stared blankly back.

"No? Good. I dearly hope to the Allmighty that each and every one of you knows your orders, and you fulfill them to the letter. _Dismissed!"_

All was hubbub as the Major ended the strategic farce. Sepp was damned happy it was over. He elbowed his way through the small crowd and out into the early afternoon air. He needed a smoke, bad. Once clear of the tent he popped a cigarette and lit up, sucking the fumes into his lungs.

Someone came up next to him. Roma. The smoke didn't seem to bother her at all. Rats, his master plan foiled.

"Why'd you go and do that, Sepp?"

"Do what?" He left his cig between his lips and stuck his hands in his pockets, staring out to the blue midday horizon.

She glowered. "You know, challenge the Major. It's not good for morale. We don't need division within our own lines. The Greens are giving us enough of that."

Sepp raised an eyebrow but continued to avoid her gaze. "What're ya asking of me?"

"Respect him. You may not agree with his decisions but he has more experience than you and I combined. His officers are well trained, and he knows what he's doing when he actually get down to it."

"I don't have to respect the man, only the rank," he said as he blew smoke. Sometimes, respecting only half a man was hazardous for your standing. But Sepp wasn't one to care about that. He knew Roma was right, though. Splitting up command was never a good idea. It didn't matter too much when they were fighting Black Hole; everyone hated the bastards. But now too many people were too weary and too shocked for Sepp to endanger spirits.

The formal declaration of war that had come earlier that morning, though, had taken over in that department. Actually it was Orange Star that declared war on Green Earth. The Greens had just attacked, letting the whole thing solve itself. It was kinda strange, really. Green Earth's government was one large, bumbling bureaucracy, second only to Orange Star's in size, so they normally did these sorts of things on paper. Their Prime Minister was a single part of a multipiece administration, similar to Orange Star's President. Yellow Comet and Blue Moon were a bit more… authoritative on the matter. The Blue Moon Premier had no real power: General Olaf held the reigns. And Emperor Kanbei was the undisputed ruler of Yellow Comet.

Sepp sighed. So, his task as the senior officer of the 3rd Armored was to sit on his hands and wait for the Greens to come to them. Wonderful. He wondered if the platoon would be reinforced with additional tanks. Probably not. Even if he asked the Major, there was an equal chance he'd send them pails of nuts and bolts or a poorly drawn middle finger.

He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with the heel of his boot. There was a commotion over near one of the entertainment tents; i.e. a sheet over a television. Maybe they'd found a decent movie to watch. He wandered in that direction, leaving Roma with her perpetual frown.

(())

Christoph picked his feet up and over a fallen log. He'd almost tripped over the dead bulk, the early morning light was so faint. He lifted his tired eyes up the path. Nothing had changed. More trees, more rocks, more dirt and leaves. They trudged ever onwards, ever eastwards.

He stole a quick glance to his rear. Sami followed him in a reversal of their usual roles. She'd claimed her neck hurt from watching their path and wanted Christoph to lead for a bit. But Christoph wasn't a fool; something was up. Sami now acted sullen, withdrawn. Some piece of her had changed during their encounter with the enemy patrol. He had a hunch it was related to her letting the one man live. He didn't know Sami all that well, though, so he could only guess blindly beyond that.

She wasn't the type to give up so easily, not Commander Sami. Not the legend of Orange Star, defeater of Sturm and conqueror of cities, personal friend to C-in-C Nell. Even a relative stranger like Christoph knew of Sami's fiery attitude and swift-thinking command. This just wasn't her.

But there was little he could do. He led now, checking their compass every so often to ensure they were headed in the proper direction. Occasionally the distinctive sound of armor rumbled somewhere to the north. Perhaps it was the scouting party's parent force. They'd find out once they reached Fort Iams. If it still existed.

Being cut off from any news was hard, for Christoph and Sami. As military officers they thrived on intel, and if he knew the enemy's troop movements he could at least occupy himself with formulating possible counters. Nature offered very little in the way of distractions, at least while their minds attended thoughts of industry and war.

At the moment, though, Christoph had something resembling a plan. There was a north-south interstate ten miles west of the fort, and if they found it and caught a passing vehicle, they could hitch a ride and evade the last leg of the trip. He was certain they were almost there, but he hadn't heard anything. They would be lucky if civilian cars still ran the interstate with approaching Green Earth forces.

He reached the top of another wooded knoll and halted, letting Sami catch up. Under her eyes was tinted dark from lack of sleep. They'd stopped for a rest yesterday afternoon after they'd cleared the general area of the encounter, and she'd volunteered first watch but never woke Christoph up for his turn. He felt guilty about that still, even if it'd been out of his control. While he wanted to at least ask what was wrong, she'd turned away his questions, so he'd given up trying. She still walked and that was enough.

_One boot in front of the other_. Nothing more to it. As simple as it got.

Sami closed to Christoph's position. She looked exhausted. Christoph probably did too.

"Shouldn't be far now," he informed her.

Sami only nodded. She shrugged one shoulder to readjust her rifle's strap. If she exhibited her usual determination, Christoph figured she would fit right into those newspaper photos, with her rifle and attire. Now their clothes were stained with their journey. It'd been 36 hours since the HQ battle. Not really a long time, but it was considering they were tramping through a forest, desperately avoiding capture.

Christoph let out a lopsided yawn and poked at his eyelids before continuing forth. Sami's footsteps crunched behind him. There was no use in worrying about her condition, as long as she kept moving. They traveled down and up another pair of slopes. The minutes ticked by uncounted and untroubled. Time took on a different meaning out here.

Christoph glanced up through the trees ahead – and noticed a difference in the light. The green canopy dissipated to permit a medium blue, the twilight sky heralding the coming day. It was quite uniform. Too uniform, almost a rectangle of cobalt.

"I think we've found it," he murmured, more to himself than to Sami. He picked up his stride, moving up the bank as fast as his fatigued legs would carry him. The trees did not thin out at a measured pace, but abruptly ended in a straight treeline.

The sight of the interstate road would've been an excuse for some tiny expression of happiness, if Christoph hadn't been so completely worn. The flat, black asphalt and even, painted lines provided a stark contrast to the forested topography. His eyes thanked him bountifully for the different stimuli. But he coldly reminded himself that they were not near the end of their journey. They had some distance to go, especially if they didn't catch a passing truck.

Sami walked up next to Christoph and visually swept the road from north to south. Her green eyes said nothing. "Good." Neither did her tone. Was that all she had to say? _Good?_

"Very good," he echoed, regardless. He scanned the far side of the man-made clearing, and then the forest behind them. "Well, I say we give our feet a rest and walk on the road." Christoph motioned in both directions. "There's enough distance that we'll be able to hear and see oncoming traffic."

"Right," Sami confirmed. But she didn't start, apparently waiting for Christoph to lead. He obliged and began their trek anew.

Now with a more homogeneous environment, Christoph sought other methods of distraction. He tried to tick the seconds by and rack up the minutes. He soon found it had the same effect as counting sheep in bed, and discontinued the practice. Instead he reviewed what actions they would take now that they'd found the interstate. They could follow it for a few miles south, but if they wanted to reach Fort Iams they'd eventually have to take some side roads. On those they'd be less likely to run into friendly civilians, but more likely to encounter OSA elements, as long as the fort wasn't in enemy hands.

Christoph figured about ten minutes passed before he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He craned his neck. Sami motioned northwards with her head and he followed her direction. A smudge in the distance, barely discernable without the full light of day, marred the otherwise flat asphalt expansion. His stomach lept. Seeing human activity was a change of pace. There was still no telling if the approaching vehicle was friendly or not, though.

Sami grasped Christoph's sleeve. "We should hide." It was really the first full sentence she'd spoken since yesterday. Christoph severed his gaze from the dot in agreement. They could observe the vehicle from the brush just as well as from the road. They ambled back into the relative safety of the undergrowth, taking crouched positions that still allowed them to see to the north. Now the waiting game.

The vehicle was about a mile off, and didn't appear to be in a huge hurry. They waited for the better part of two minutes as it grew larger. The rumble of its engine implied it was a truck, maybe an army recon. Christoph prayed it was Orange Star, or at least civilian.

His prayers were answered as the vehicle closed to within a few hundred yards. Definitely Orange Star, and definitely an OSA recon. As he picked out more and more details, confirming his suspicions, he felt a well-founded urge to weep swell within his chest. They were safe. Oh, _thank heaven_, they would be safe. They'd escaped from the headquarters massacre and survived an encounter with enemy troops, and now they were being justly relieved.

Sami's voice broke his excitement. "Leave your rifle on the ground. And your armor. We don't want them mistaking us for Green Earth." She was right, again. They did as she suggested. Sami left her pistol as well, and Christoph his knife. Despite the armor's light weight, it hadn't felt right and fit clumsily over their clothes. Christoph was glad to be rid of it.

"Follow my lead," Sami ordered softly. She rose and walked slowly out into the open again, hands down. Christoph copied her, sticking close. They approached the edge of the road and waited. Sami lifted an arm and waved, palm facing out.

The vehicle drew nearer. Eventually Christoph could make out a head jutting from the passenger side window. Then he saw the rifle, trained on their position. Sami carefully retracted her hand and waited.

The vehicle rolled to a stop, engine idling. A standard reconnaissance truck, wider than its civilian counterparts. Christoph noted the driver through the windshield: the helmeted man alternated between watching them and his mirrors. The side door opened, and the other man with the rifle stepped out. He was outfitted as a standard OSA soldier, but his glasses told Christoph that he wasn't combat infantry. That didn't make his rifle any less intimidating. He scrutinized the pair, checking them for weapons before meeting them eye-to-eye.

"Identify yerselves," he stated simply. His voice held an accented drawl, and didn't suggest he was nervous. Maybe he'd run across stragglers before. Maybe that was his assigned task. The thought was encouraging.

Sami spoke in a low tone. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sami, and this is Captain Christoph Jorn, both of the Orange Star Army."

The man's eyebrows rose behind his wire frame glasses. "Sami? _The _Sami?" He pursed his lips, halfway between interest and skepticism. He inspected her from head to toe. "You're the spittin' image of her, I'll give ya that. But if you are, in fact,_ the_ Lieutenant Colonel, ya won't mind it if I ask fer summ'n with a little more substance. Ma'am," he added this last title with a nod of his helmet.

Christoph figured she'd show them some sort of identification. Instead, Sami deliberately reached for the white band around her right upper arm and pulled it down a couple inches. She turned the limb towards their interrogator. He leaned in and peered through his lenses, then smacked his lips.

"Well! That's there's better than any Ah-Dee, if I do say so myself." He nodded and offered a reassuring smile, letting one hand loose to point to Christoph. "And y'ken vouch for this guy?"

Sami's tired eyes looked at Christoph for a moment. "I can. He's with me."

The rifle lowered. Christoph relaxed his tense limbs. There was no question about it, they'd be returning to civilization.

The soldier gave Sami a respectful salute. "Private Massle, ma'am. Do forgive me for the gun, just standard procedure, I'm sure ya understand." He jerked a thumb towards the truck. "This here's Private Messerschmitt. Don't let his name get to ya, he's Orange Star through and through." Messerschmitt saluted through the pane glass. Massle backtracked to the truck and opened the rear door. "We're headin' to Fort Iams, and judgin' by your sorry state, ma'am, you'll be wantin' to come with us. How'd you manage to wind up way out here anyway?"

Sami stepped up and ducked into the bench seat. "We were at headquarters when it was hit by Green Earth. We managed to escape."

Sami scooted over to the far side of the vehicle and Christoph clambered in after her. Private Massle let out a low whistle. "Damn, that was two days ago, ma'am. And ya trekked yerselves all the way out here?"

She only nodded. Christoph could tell she was running on fumes, emotionally. He was too but he answered for her. "We did. It wasn't fun, I'll say that much." Though satisfied to be out of the wild, Christoph's thoughts turned elsewhere. He almost didn't want to ask, fearing the answers he would receive, but he did anyway. "Private, has there been any word of other HQ survivors? Commanding General Rachel? Colonel Max? Captain Jake?"

Massle hopped into the passenger seat and shut his door, allowing Messerschmitt to rev the engine. The recon jumped forward and began to pick up speed, transiting smoothly on the interstate road. Messerschmitt's lean face reflected in the rear view mirror and he answered: "Well, sir, there's good and bad news in that department. The CG's fine, so is Captain Jake. They made it out with a reasonable number of troops. Rachel's got herself a nice leg cast, and somehow or another Jake found a way to copy her and his arm's all strapped up in plaster."

A pause. An alarm went off in Christoph's head. He hadn't mentioned Max, and he hadn't mentioned the bad news. That did not bode well.

The driver's fingers drummed the steering wheel. He coughed. "Colonel Max… well, sir, we aren't positive, but by the CG's account, he was captured, sir. Green Earth got him."

Christoph felt like someone punched him in the gut. Max, captured? His own CO, in the hands of the enemy. Not just his CO, but a good friend. He looked at Sami, as though she had to validate what the private was saying. Her jaw hung open, expression slack. She wasn't in any mood to hear what she'd just heard. Neither was Christoph, for that matter.

Massle noted their reactions. "I know, it's no good. At least he ain't dead, I reckon. But Colonel Max… he's a damn big fella, it must've taken four strong men to bring him up." He shook his head. "A damn shame."

Christoph's stared blankly at the seat in front of him. His head hurt. The full implications of Max's capture wouldn't really hit him until he got a good rest, he knew, but it wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. This conflict was going from bad to worse and it was only on day three.

"This war's gonna be a sight harder than it would've been a couple days ago, that's for certain," Massle observed.

Messerschmitt glanced to his partner. "Shit. Jim, remember, they didn't hear about…" he trailed off.

_Oh, fuck me_. More bad news? "What is it, private? Tell me straight."

Massle's unshaven face appeared over his seat's shoulder, perturbed. "Sir…" but he too stopped. It was as though neither of them could bear telling Christoph or Sami any more.

Christoph just shook his head impatiently. "I want to know, private."

Massle's prominent Adam's apple shifted. He and his driver exchanged glances again. Finally, reluctantly, he obeyed Christoph's command.

"Well, sir, the news just came in yesterday, 'round noon. Emperor Kanbei is dead."


	6. Short on Quarters

Max's world came into focus, bit by hazy bit. A dotted beige crammed his field of view. If he wasn't disoriented he'd have wondered about that. His head was full of mush, and not in the literal sense like his enemies and rivals would often comment.

Visions flickered. Running from the burning headquarters, carrying Rachel and protected by Jake. Fleeing. Tripping over his own bootlaces and sending him and his human cargo sprawling. A cry of pain, his, not Rachel's. Sprained ankle. At the very thought his bones ached. Jake helping Rachel up, partly because there was no way he could lift Max. Max shouting at them to run for it. Green Earth soldiers. A crack to the back of his head.

After that he wasn't sure, but he put two and two together and the pieces fit. He groaned as he realized he'd fallen into enemy hands. How long had he been out?

Max heaved himself up, replacing the bumped beige ceiling with a rough, concrete wall. He was in a small room, nearly too small for someone his stature. _More like a cell_. The door was bolted steel and fitted with a small viewing slot. He was sitting on a cot a half foot too short for his seven-foot height. The metal and springs protested as he settled his muscle weight and gently brought his throbbing ankle to the cold floor. His worn boots rested empty at the foot of the bed.

Max inspected the contents of the room: metal toilet, thankfully of decent size. A sink. A small folding chair. There was a bookcase too, stacked with paperbacks, though Max wasn't too fond of reading literature. Seemed the Green fellows were still human, even if they'd decided to make war against Orange Star. It was certainly better than the idea of being captured by groundhogs.

Voices hummed outside the door, but Max didn't understand what they were saying. Probably Erdsprech or whatever the Green Earth language was. He didn't know a lick of it. The best language for war, he figured, was a tank shell to a tank. Didn't mean he wasn't smart, just meant he knew where his priorities were.

The door port slid open. A pair of eyes squinted through and inspected Max. Max stared back.

Even after being out for God knows how long, Max's voice boomed in the confinement of his cell. "Hey! Mind telling me what's going on here? Hello! You guys speak-"

"The Commander will see you now!" With that the metal slot slammed shut. Well, _someone_ spoke his language. Max mused over first contact with the enemy. _The Commander_. There were several possibilities for who "the Commander" was. All were somewhat reassuring, as far as attitudes went. Max was on good terms with most of the Green Earth COs, with the possible exception of Drake, and even that seadog was known to be a relatively lax fellow.

Max sighed loudly. Footsteps. More Erdsprech. The slot slid open again briefly, and the eyes returned to watch Max. Then the door cracked.

"I advise you to stay where you are, Colonel. If you move too quickly my men will not hesitate to fire." A familiar voice.

"I understand," Max said as clearly as possible. He had no wish to be shot up after surviving the battle at HQ. What an end that would be.

The heavy metal door opened, and Max's placement of the speaker was proven correct. Eagle stepped into the small room, black boots clacking against the hard floor. He looked just as Max remembered him: blue aviator's jacket, goggles strapped round his neck, prematurely gray hair slicked back. He muttered something to the guard outside and the door swung shut.

Eagle took a seat in the folding chair. Max figured it'd probably been placed there just for that reason. For his interrogation. That didn't sound appealing.

The Green Earth commander folded his leather-bound hands and rested his elbows on his legs. He eyed Max, and Max him, and for a while neither spoke. Max's initial assessment was a bit off: there were faint creases across Eagle's face, wrinkles that hadn't been there a few months ago. Max noted an occupied holster strapped to his waist. Eagle apparently perceived his line of sight.

"I may be an Air Force officer, Max, but I know how to use it just as well. I'd rather not, though, if it's all the same to you."

"I'd rather you didn't either," the big man confirmed. So. Face to face with Lieutenant General Eagle of the GEAF once again. Except this time from opposing sides of the battlefield. Figuratively, of course. The first war all over again.

Max hunched his shoulders. "Well, Eagle. I wish I could say it's a hit seeing you again, but I can't." No grounds for being uncivilized with his captor, Max reasoned. Eagle was a decent man, or had been in the past. He probably had little to do with instigating this new conflict; just a soldier following his orders.

"Likewise." Eagle rubbed the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. He looked bushed. Older than he really was. It'd only been two months since Von Bolt's defeat, but it seemed to Max that everyone had aged five or ten years. _That was life_, as Sami would say. You just had to accept it and move on.

Max gripped the knee of his bad leg. It hurt too, probably twisted a bit when he'd sprained the same ankle. The pain made him impatient, and he decided to forgo a friendly chat. "Ok, Eagle. Let's get to it. You're a smart man. You know I'm not in tune with the Orange Star brass. I may be friends with Nell but I don't know state secrets. I'll tell you right now that the army doesn't have a strategy; we didn't think we'd need one. Then your guys just marched right up and kicked us in our collective nuts. That's about as much information as you'll get outta me. Go ahead and pump me full of whatever drugs your psychoanalyst boys have concocted, there's nothing else to say." It really was the truth. Eagle wouldn't resort to torture; it wasn't an effective method of extracting information. And there really _wasn't_ anything that he hadn't told Eagle, so other methods of persuasion would be wasted. Max just didn't want to deal with that. Might as well be up front about it.

Eagle let his hand drop. "I know, Max. I'm not expecting you to tell me anything that could prove useful to Green Earth. That's not why we captured you."

Max didn't want to play games. "Then why did you?"

He smiled grimly. "You're a… former ally, Max, but you fell into our hands. I will do what I can to deprive my enemies of their resources, and if that means denying them one of their most potent COs, then that's what I'll do. It doesn't mean I'm going to have you executed. We're still human. I simply…"

A space of silence. "You simply what?"

Eagle blew air from his nose. "I simply wanted to see how an old acquaintance was doing. I wanted to ensure you were being taken care of properly. Your stay with us will not end up being the most comfortable, but I'll do what I can. When hostilities have ceased, in all likelihood you will be let go. Of course I can't guarantee anything, but I have considerable sway over the General of the Air Force, and a word in the Prime Minister's ear."

Some part of Max was pissed, but he knew it wasn't really fair to feel that way towards Eagle. The man was just doing his job. Max closed his eyes and took a breath. "Well, if it means anything… thanks. I'd rather not die here, you know?" His train of thought shifted. Max probably wouldn't be able to reverse the grilling, but he tried anyway: "Where is here, exactly? If you're able to tell me, of course."

Eagle's hard black eyes softened a little. "Technically I'm not supposed to tell prisoners of war _where_ they're being held, but I can make an exception. We're in Calciki. Exactly where I won't say out of precaution. If you're concerned about the citizens, don't be. There is a curfew in place but otherwise they're fairly free to do as they please, within reasonable limits. My men are disciplined, they won't engage in looting or violence. Trust me." Eagle drummed his fingers on the hilt of his pistol. For some reason this gave Max a start; was Eagle really someone who would _execute_ his own soldiers for disorderly conduct? He was a brash, arrogant man but that didn't quite fit his personality.

"I'll try, Eagle. I'll trust you as far as I can trust any honorable enemy."

"Then you're either a fool or the last sane man in this war-torn world." His tone told Max that he was quite serious.

Water dripped from the sink faucet but otherwise it was quiet. Seemed there was a lot of that nowadays, despite the war.

Eagle opened his mouth but no words came. Max discerned a little uncertainly in his expression. There was something he wanted to say but couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

He managed anyway. His question did not surprise Max in the slightest, and he said it as quietly as possible, as though he didn't want his soldiers to hear. "How is Sami?"

Max frowned. He didn't honestly have a clue. She'd left with Christoph to try and rally the HQ forces but that'd turned into a rout. If she'd been captured then at the very least Eagle wouldn't have asked. His concern seemed genuine enough too. And God knows he would've personally checked each and every body and medical ward to see if she was a casualty.

"I'm not sure," Max ventured carefully. "I saw her around headquarters a couple times but we were both so busy, we hadn't talked a good deal." Half truth. Best not to say much more. Max hoped she and Christoph had escaped with Jake and Rachel, or other survivors.

Eagle only inclined his head. His lips pressed tight, and nodded. "Alright. I won't push you for any more, Max. I thank you for at least that." He stood slowly and brushed off his pant legs. "I don't believe I'll come around to see you again. There's much work to be done." _Work_. Fighting Orange Star forces. He wondered if Eagle had said that deliberately or if he was preoccupied with Sami.

"Alright, Eagle." That was that. Nothing else to say. The Green Earth CO turned his back to Max and rapped a fist on the door. The guard outside acknowledged and opened it, allowing the commander to step outside.

The metal bulk slammed shut. Max was alone again. A confined feeling settled over him; for a few brief minutes, while talking with Eagle, he hadn't felt like a prisoner. But now he did. A bitter taste in his mouth was the only reminder of his chat.

(())

"We're bringing this news live to our viewers. We will quickly recap yesterday's events for any who have been unable to tune in. We understand that the recent hostilities with Green Earth have shaken many and cut off others from regular updates.

"At approximately 11:35 AM yesterday, August 20th, an explosion rippled through the Imperial Palace in Yellow Comet's capital. The death toll is now listed at twenty-eight, with dozens more injured and in critical condition. While initial reports went unconfirmed, it has been announced by the Yellow Comet government that Emperor Kanbei himself _was indeed among the casualties of this tragedy_. Kanbei was declared dead when rescue workers discovered him in his private bedchambers nearly ten minutes after the initial detonation.

"The Yellow Comet government has refused to comment on the nature of the explosion as of yet, and all rumors of a terrorist attack or foreign aggression are purely within the realm of speculation. The Orange Star Secretary of Foreign Affairs has only stated, quote, _'This catastrophe is troubling to us. Emperor Kanbei was a staunch Orange Star ally during the Black Hole wars, and his death will be felt even here. Orange Star has offered its aid to Yellow Comet despite the growing Green Earth conflict.'_

"The Yellow Comet Inner Ministry will be broadcasting a worldwide statement today, scheduled at 3:00 PM Cosmo Land time. For those of you not up to date on your time zones, stand by: this will be in a few minutes. In the meantime we will replay what footage we have of the event itself."

Well, this certainly was news. Christoph absorbed Emperor Kanbei's death as he would've any decent politician's. He observed the obligatory ten-minute period of sorrow. By all accounts Emperor Kanbei had been a good man, and for once the Secretary's words were truthful: he was a strong and faithful ally of Orange Star. Honorable. Positive adjectives abound.

Sami hadn't wanted to watch it. When they'd arrived at Fort Iams she'd simply requested a bunk and disappeared. Christoph would probably do the same at some point, though he'd actually slept last night so in his case it was less urgent. Had she known the emperor personally? They'd ended up on the same side in the first two wars, Christoph knew.

The small TV screen shifted to video footage. It was a poor quality tourist video, probably taken from a phone camera or digital camcorder. For a few moments the screen zoomed in on an old statue of some historical Yellow Comet figure. Then a muffled boom. Someone, presumably the cameraman, cursed in surprise and swung his device around to refocus on a far-off compound. The distinctly foreign design of the Imperial Palace filled the screen, last bits of a yellow fireball mushrooming into the air from one of the huge structured wings. Tiny dots of debris arced. Black smoke billowed outward, and a refrain of car alarms shrieked off-beat. The rest of the film consisted of the cameraman excitedly talking to his friends or family and attempting to get a better view. Nothing really more to see. Christoph looked away from the screen, loosened his bunched cargo pants, and observed the room.

He wasn't alone. Captain Jake and a few lieutenants occupied the officer's lounge with him. It wasn't too large, enough so to house Christoph's couch, a couple armchairs, the TV and some furniture, as well as a tiled area that served as a kitchen. Occasionally someone would come by and pour themselves a cup of coffee, watch for a few moments, and continue on their way. Christoph picked up his own mug and took a gulp. God, he could _taste_ the caffeine, and it was delicious. Three days without it was telling.

The troops would probably be either crowding the enlisted men's lounge equivalent or otherwise distracting themselves, he figured. A Green Earth assault on the fort was predicted within a few days. Eventually they'd have to ride out and meet them, so to speak.

Jake didn't seem to be bothered by his white arm cast and sling. Apparently he'd taken a bullet. It wouldn't stop him for life, but long enough. He wouldn't be able to directly command Fort Iams' forces; instead he would assist Rachel as the overall commander. No, Jake's task now fell to Christoph. It was a scary prospect; his first real orders as captain, issued during wartime. But Rachel had made herself clear. She also made it clear that she trusted him. Christoph couldn't go squandering that trust by refusing.

"Sucks about Kanbei," Jake said. Christoph guessed Jake's feelings towards the emperor were similar to his own: regretful but not personally affected. "I never met the guy but Max spoke pretty well of him." He clicked his tongue. "Sucks about Max too. Man, we've gotta do something about that. Rescue mission maybe. He was the first one on the scene during the last war, y'know? Helped us out big time." Jake took a pull of his canned soda.

"Yea." A rescue mission. It seemed possible, except for the fact that they didn't know where Max was being held. Probably in Calciki. The Greens had dug in pretty well there. Fort Iams had reestablished radio contact with the 2nd Battalion, and discovered that Major Frederick Kullins was in command. He'd taken two companies to fortify Withersburg, for whatever reason. That left Bravo, Christoph's company, in place sixty or so miles northwest of headquarters' former position. The news was that his platoon had been crippled by the first assault but most of the noncombatants had made it out. As for Sepp, Roma, and Sigfried, though, Christoph could only speculate.

_If only I'd been there…_ This was what his heart told him, his impulsive reactions. His logical side droned on about how it wouldn't have made a difference, how the platoon would've been beaten anyway. How his presence was not required, how Roma and Sepp and Sigfried were more than capable. It didn't help.

The remainder of the television footage cut off, offering Christoph a distraction. The announcer appeared again. "We're sorry to interrupt the video, but we have just been informed that the Yellow Comet Inner Ministry is readying its speech to the nation, and the world. We bring you this live."

A new setting popped onto the screen. A crowd of thousands, filling what appeared to be an enormous city square, shuffled and waved back and forth. It wasn't calm by any means but the relatively low noise level was astonishing and quite impressive. These Yellow Comet citizens held considerable respect for their deceased emperor, apparently.

The camera panned and zoomed to a rising dais and lectern in front of an ornately designed government building. Someone stood behind the granite stand. Christoph wasn't familiar with them. It wasn't Kanbei's daughter, and it wasn't one of the better-known Yellow Comet COs. Just some high-ranking official, he supposed.

Jake squinted at the tiny figures. "Huh. I don't see Sonja there. You'd think she'd attend this, if it's honoring her dad."

"Do you know her?" Christoph queried.

"Kinda, yea. She came late during the war but was definitely crucial. She could give any Black Hole commander a run for their money."

The picture zoomed even more, offering the Fort Iams viewers a closer look. Sure enough, Sonja was not present among the officials crowding the ledge. However, Christoph did pick out a face from the military handbooks: the commander known as Sensei. He was certainly old and the television wasn't flattering to his appearance. He looked awkward in formal military clothing, and the corners of his lips were turned down ever so slightly, out of solemn reverence or grief. Another officer, a large man opposite to Sensei and facing away from the camera, was probably Grimm. His profile was reminiscent of Sigfried.

The central man raised his arms into the air, willing the amassed spectators into silence. The effect was profound. The gently roaring crowd quickly became a peaceful, considerate audience. Christoph could hardly believe it. That would've been impossible with a similar mass of Orange Star citizens.

The man began to speak in whatever the Comet language was. A moment behind him, the media station's translator picked up.

"My brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers," the improvised speaker said in a tone that hardly matched the powerful voice of the Yellow Comet official. "Today is a terrible day, only surpassed in woe by the day before. We have all been shocked and awedby the horrific death of our most beloved leader, our Great and Venerable Emperor Kanbei_._

"Our communal grief is tangible, and each citizen of Yellow Comet feels more sorrow than the last, more loss than the last. The Emperor's brilliant and beautiful daughter, Princess Sonja, wishes it known that she too suffers, both from her own anguish and that of her people. She would offer her very life to stand where I am today and address you as her as a fellow countryman. Of course, as she is filial beyond all expectations, Princess Sonja is observing our traditional rites and will be in private mourning for three days. She bids you all understand."

The official turned his head away from the microphone to cough, before continuing. "According to the line of succession, with no other heirs available, our Princess will be crowned Empress of Yellow Comet when the three days of mourning have passed." With this comment, the crowd broke into a round of applause. A contained, respectful, and brief round.

Jake whistled. "Empress Sonja? Damn, she's sure got a better gig than we do."

Christoph chuckled. "Her paycheck is probably ten times what we get. Wonder if we can do the same by offing our bosses."

"Paycheck? Man, she's runnin' the whole country now! They'll just _give _her whatever she wants! You have no idea how many CDs I'd be able to afford…"

The captains' banter cut out as the applause died. The TV carried on.

"Our police and intelligence forces have worked tirelessly through the evening, night, and day to determine the cause of this most terrible occurrence, and what they have discovered is troubling."

So, not an accident. Christoph's first inclination was, of course, to blame Green Earth, but there really wouldn't have been a point to starting another war with another nation. The other possibility involved renegade Black Hole troops, survivors of the second war, or even perhaps a few who'd made it from Omega Land. After that, domestic terrorists. Honestly, it could've been a disgruntled office worker for all he knew.

"Our former allies during the Black Hole Wars have offered us aid and condolences in our time of need. But we say this! Yellow Comet respectfully declines all funds. We shall persevere through this incident alone and we shall emerge better for it. We will learn from our mistakes, and learn to not trust those who were never to be trusted in the first place.

"The Inner Ministry's intelligence network, utilizing peerless methods and efficient conduct, has determined that this act of violence was perpetrated by an _Orange Star sleeper agent, right in the midst of our very capital._"

"What?"

Christoph found himself nearly standing over the television. His coffee mug was on the carpet, emptying its contents onto the rug. _The fuck are they talking about?_

Apparently the Yellow Comet crowd's reaction was equally incredulous. The growl returned, a little louder than it had been. A questioning, angry growl.

"Yes!" the official speaker declared. "It is most unfortunate but it is the truth. We have captured the man in question, and within an hour he broke and leaked his secrets to us. Just as Orange Star has enacted a pointless war of aggression against Green Earth, they have made to strike us, by murdering our Emperor!"

"That's _bullshit!_" Jake shouted. The others in the room fervently agreed. It _was_ bullshit. A huge heaping pile of it. _The fucking Greens attacked us!_ _I saw it fucking happen!_ Yea, _officially_ the first declaration of war had come from Orange Star, but only because the Greens didn't have the common decency to do the same!

The air sounded with expletives. Passerbys, attracted by the vocal upheaval, entered the room to see what was going on.

The Yellow Comet crowd grew more unruly with each word. "They have stricken us, thinking it would weaken us and make us cower! They have tried to throw off our trail with sweet words of sympathy! But we will not be bullied so! Orange Star must be taught a valuable lesson, for they believe themselves powerful enough to fight not only our Green Earth brothers, but this great nation of Yellow Comet!"

The zealous audience was losing control of its behavior. Like a rabid dog clawing to burst from its cage, its members howled and barked and lamented in fury.

The cursing at Fort Iams, however, died into a disturbing stillness. Somnolent, fed-up, and weary from conflict, no one could believe what they were hearing. It just wasn't possible, that an Orange Star agent had killed Emperor Kanbei. Neither was it possible that Yellow Comet could blame them. It wasn't, it just wasn't. Christoph could hardly deal with fighting Greens now, anything more would break wills.

"For any who do not accept the Inner Ministry's word, hear this! We will be holding a _public trial_ of the foreign spy. He will be questioned. He will be examined. He will confess all, so that it cannot be denied. He will be executed, as the murderer he is!

"Then, and only then, the reckoning will come!"

The thousands-numbered throng roared in nationalistic frenzy. The camera panned over the human wave. Arms in the air. Fists. Christoph could plainly see that each and every one of those people screamed for revenge. Bloody, exacting revenge.

Orange Star was going to war with Yellow Comet.

_Dear lord._

(())

"Whoop! Sorry – ah!"

Papers and folders flittered to the ground in a disorganized mess. Sami criticized herself silently. _Watch where you're going._ She sighed and stooped to help retrieve the objects she'd just managed to knock from the hands of an army clerk.

"It's alright, ma'am. Sorry about that," the clerk said. He bent to file his work back into order.

"No, my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." It was true. She'd gotten lost in her own thoughts. It seemed impossible to focus anymore, and that wasn't very reassuring.

The clerk did not say anything in defense of his claim. He just shook his head and piled the sheets together on the ground. Sami heaped a collection of white papers onto the stack, and the man picked up the whole thing, sliding it all into a folder haphazardly.

"Thank you, ma'am. Have a good day."

Sami nodded wearily. The clerk briskly walked away, in a hurry to get somewhere. Sami turned and walked opposite, down the hall. Half-shambled, really. She was still exhausted, and could've used another couple hours of sleep. But one of Rachel's lackeys had come by Sami's quarters and woken her. Her presence was requested in the war room, and the CG's request was to be treated like the CG's demand. Rachel was good-natured but she wasn't fond of insubordination. There was a rumor that she'd once ordered Jake to do her laundry when he'd screwed up a training mission… probably just a rumor though. Still, Sami had never been one for late arrivals.

She stifled a yawn. At least she was clean. She'd taken a shower – and damn if it hadn't made her feel human again. Her filthy clothes were up for washing, too. Now she wore a set of loosely-fitting military fatigues that she'd scrounged from her temporary quarters. Best she could do, and she wouldn't complain.

Sami rounded a corner. She scanned for some indication of the war room. Another meeting, evocative of the headquarters event. Of course that wouldn't happen again. She didn't enjoy the idea of marching through another thirty miles of terrain.

The Green Earth patrol returned to her now, even as she tried to ignore the memory. The boy's face, the one she'd let live. She couldn't wipe it from her mind. There was a Blue Moon essayist that once said, "Try not to think of a bear, and you will see the accursed thing every minute." Sami sought to take the message to heart and divert her attention, but it was maddeningly difficult. She picked up her stride in order to reach her destination more quickly. Anything was better than mindless wandering.

The passing doors were blank except for small, printed letters and numbers. Sami studied each, looking for the proper label. E42. E43. E44…

An armed soldier stood guard at the next door._ E45, the war room._ As Sami approached the guard's eyes shifted and he brought his hand parallel to his brow.

"Ma'am. The CG is in, feel free to enter."

Sami relieved the soldier and gripped the door knob. War again. It was always war. War and blood and death. She turned the handle and pushed.

The war room was of decent size. It featured no windows, though. An unused electronic whiteboard and computerized lectern were the main facets of the far wall, and overhead lights glared down angrily, a little too bright. At the last meeting they were too dim. Maintenance could never get it right. Typically bureaucratic.

The faces within glanced up at her entrance. There were no others to complement Rachel, Christoph, and Jake. They were short on officers, it seemed. All stood – even Rachel, despite her cast – over a large planning table, a map of the region laid flat and smooth on its surface. A few documents decorated the corners.

Rachel did her best to smile warmly. It was a half-hearted attempt. "Welcome back to the living, Sami."

"Thanks, Rachel. It's good to see you're still alive too." Very much so. Rachel was a good person, and a good commander. She was understanding but she knew her stuff. Sami blinked around, searching for a clock. "I'm not late, am I?"

"Not at all. The others just decided to show up early."

Sami met Jake's eyes, and then Christoph's, giving them each a nod in greeting. They both looked dazed and burned but they returned the gesture. Christoph even saluted. He was still finding it hard to break old habits, Sami mused. She shuffled to the table. There were no seats. _Can't have everything,_ she supposed.

Jake and Christoph appeared worse for wear. Even Rachel didn't exhibit her usual lively attitude. Sami's mood only compounded the gloomy aura. War wasn't a fun trade. It was a necessary trade.

Jake scratched his cast absentmindedly while his brown eyes questioned her as much as his tone. "You hear about the Yellow Comet news?"

She nodded. "Emperor Kanbei? Yes." Kanbei was one of the last real noble souls left in the business, and she'd fought side by side with him in the past. Perhaps not closely but the news still hurt.

"That's not what I mean," Jake said. "Yellow Comet blames us for his death. They say an Orange Star agent did it."

Sami was tired but she still processed this information sharply. More political crap. Her expression slackened. "Are you serious?" She rested her knuckles on the table and closed her eyes. _Damn it. Right in the middle of a war. Just what we need._

Christoph snorted. "Check out the news when you get a chance. It's all over, got the politicians running in circles back in Serlin. Those capital jokers are scrambling to do some of their diplomatic jazz."

"What's wrong with that? More talk means less work for us."

"Apparently they didn't get the message when the YC government _roused its people into a warmongering frenzy._"

The implications of Christoph's words revealed themselves to Sami. "Shit. We're going to war with Yellow Comet too, aren't we?"

"Afraid so," Christoph said. So that was the reason for the foul atmosphere. Sami felt the beginnings of a headache creeping up on her, and her sweatband was suddenly too tight. Not what she needed to hear. Not what any of them did.

"Regardless," Rachel broke the tension, "we have more pressing concerns right now." She tottered, shifting her weight. The cast wasn't making things easy for her, Sami knew. "I was able to get in touch with the Commander-in – er, Nell – and get a bigger picture of this war.

"It looks like we're receiving the brunt of the conflict. Most of the fighting in Cosmo Land has consisted of naval engagements and port harassment. There haven't been exchanges of long-range bombing runs, yet. The OSN is contending with Drake's navy, which is obviously difficult for them, but Eagle is –"

Rachel stopped, mouth still open. Then she bit her lip.

Sami knew exactly why she halted, and it had the same effect on her as a strike to the diaphragm. Her green eyes locked with Rachel's blue.

"What about Eagle?" she asked critically.

The CG fumbled for words. "Well, er…"

Jake's forehead wrinkled. Christoph glanced between the two female COs, visibly confused.

"Rachel," Sami said, "I need to know. Is Eagle commanding the Green Earth forces in Omega Land?"

Rachel did not look to the others for help. She'd apparently slipped up, and wasn't supposed to say anything about Eagle. Maybe Nell's orders. _Well, screw that._ Sami's only chance of getting her mind focused was to face her fears and doubts head on. She had to know.

Finally the CG caved in. "Yes. He is."

Sami took a slow, deep breath and bit her gum. Her suspicions proven. She'd hoped by removing some doubt she'd experience relief, but fate did not oblige. Apprehension lingered. "Thank you, Rachel. That's all. Continue, I'm sorry."

The CG eyed Sami uncertainly, but decided against questioning her. "Yes. Well." She broadened her speech, directing it to all three of her listeners. "Yellow Comet has yet to officially declare war. We're expecting it within a few hours, though. Their forces have not been mobilized, and their presence in Omega Land wasn't huge during the last conflict. They have some units available here, and those will pose a threat to us, but it's nothing we can't handle. The capital estimates that they have at least a week before Yellow Comet can really do damage over there. They're pretty much on the opposite side of the continent, of course, and Blue Moon is right between them and Serlin."

"What're the Blue guys doing?" Jake asked. "What side are they taking in this mess?"

"Blue Moon has officially informed everyone that they're remaining neutral. They were hit pretty hard during the Second Black Hole War and they're still hurting, so they don't want to risk more open warfare."

Sami classified that as the best possible news concerning Blue Moon. There was no way they'd help Orange Star out of some misplaced sense of brotherhood. There was too much bad blood between the countries. She welcomed their neutrality.

"Now," Rachel declared as she spread her palms over the map, carefully maintaining her balance on her unbroken leg, "As for our predicament. Calciki is entirely in the hands of Green Earth." Sami noted bitterness in Rachel's words. She blamed herself for that one. "We believe their base of operations in Omega Land is situated there. A few companies' worth of armor and infantry, the same group that assaulted headquarters, has detached itself from the main Green Earth body and is heading this way. We assume they're trying to take out our position. Fort Iams is the only thing standing between them and Dorton City, and I will _not_ risk any more urban conflict than I have to."

"Therefore, we will be making our stand here." A figurative expression, of course. One did not make 'stands' in modern combat. Victory went to the most mobile, the most able to exploit weaknesses quickly. "A portion of our force will be heading out to intercept the closest Green Earth company, under the command of Captain Christoph, and try to halt their advance. Once they are engaged, we will commit whatever else we have to break them. If we hope to survive and protect Dorton from capture, we need to link up with Bravo Company, and eventually Major Kullins. We would've been evenly matched in this fight, but Green Earth took us by surprise, and we've lost at least two platoons' worth of men and tanks already." There was nothing more to say about the odds. Two platoons didn't look like much on paper when compared to a battalion or division, but Sami knew it could mean the difference in this fight.

Rachel's red hat rotated as she swept the room. "Any questions?"

Christoph took the opportunity first. "What about Max?"

She sighed heavily, as though she knew this question would come, even if she didn't want to answer it just yet. "I hate to say it, but we can't do anything for him right now. We have to concentrate on saving ourselves and Dorton City. If he's being held in Calciki, like intel believes, then we'll try to do something when the time comes."

Sami accepted this reasoning. She was as upset as anyone, more than anyone, about Max's capture, but Rachel was right. There were more important things to be addressed. She scanned the table map. Rachel hadn't even used it, so she might as well. Everything north of Calciki was relatively unimportant; the major landmarks and cities on the landmass were within a hundred miles of the southern coast. She looked up. "What's our long term goal here?"

Rachel's eyes set hard. "Right now? To retake Calciki and at least end this war on the terms it began. If we get the upper hand, then we remove Green Earth from Omega Land entirely."

Christoph whistled. "That's not gonna be easy. The Green Earth armed forces are just as well trained as ours, and they've got some of the world's best officers. Ulms Academy isn't famous for nothing. Not to mention their air force…"

"We are aware, Christoph, but that's our goal. It might be a while until we get reinforcements from Macro Land, and most of those troops will probably be heading for Cosmo, in case their naval war turns land. Plus, our best shot at winning this whole thing is to defeat Green Earth as soon as possible and prepare for the fight with Yellow Comet."

Christoph licked his lips. He was trying to put up an air of nonchalant confidence, Sami detected. Or maybe he was just that exhausted. In any case, she picked up on the twanging of nerves. The damp under his arms gave him away. He was scared, and who could blame him? This would be his first command as captain, leading a force of a hundred sixty men, divided among no less than forty tanks, Oberons and Surefields. Maybe even a Neotank squadron.

"Will we have any air support?" he asked.

Rachel nodded and actually smiled out of genuine optimism. "You will. A few wings of Dire Wolf ground-attack aircraft will be assisting us from Dorton Air Force Base, and providing you with air cover in case Eagle's flyboys decide to show up."

"His flyboys, Rach? You're starting to talk like me!" Jake laughed.

The CG almost blushed. Sami grinned and it felt good to do it. A little bit of laughter and friendly repartee went a long way.

The chuckling died down and Rachel waved them all away. "Alright. You know your duties." She gestured to the documents set on the corner of the table. "These are copies of the mission plan. Review it. We all need to know this stuff to the letter."

A round of _yes ma'ams_ replied and they all moved to pick up a manila folder each.

"Hey, Jake. Mind if I talk with you for a bit?" Christoph asked. He probably wanted to get some advice. Jake had good battlefield know-how from the Von Bolt conflict. A smart move. Christoph was catching on.

"Sure man. Let's find someplace decent. There's gotta be an empty conference room around here…"

The pair of captains left. Sami made to exit as well, but remembered Rachel's physical quandary. She turned around and moved to pick up her crutches.

"Thanks Sami. Those guys can be so oblivious sometimes." She received the offered tools and steadied herself on the table surface while propping the sticks under her arms.

"Not a problem, Rachel."

When the CG was ready to go, though, she didn't bother to move. She just gazed at the table map and the multicolored pushpins stuck in it. Then she looked at Sami, her demeanor exhibiting a concerned state of mind.

"There is one more thing, Sami," she started. "I didn't mention one piece of the plan. When Christoph and Jake read over the briefing, they'll find it. You have a role in all this too: we have a platoon of mechanized infantry on the premises that will be assisting in breaking the enemy. They're not Special Forces but you're the best person available to lead them. Not out in the field, but from here, with Jake and myself.

"But there's something I must ask you." She set her thin jaw, staring Sami straight in the eye. "Can we count on you? Can we count on you to fight Eagle's forces, with everything you have? Because that's what it's going to take, Sami. Everything. For the rest of this war. And if you feel compromised in any way…"

Sami expected this. It was no secret that she held something special for Eagle, and he for her. She'd never quite been able to tack a word to it; it was an obscure feeling, not quite affection, but more than admiration. At least that's what she told herself. And it was definitely within her Commanding General's every right to ask her if she was personally compromised. Rachel needed a truthful answer. So Sami would give her one.

She settled her eyelids and drew air. "I can do it. I can do it because I have to. And because… we have to save Max, eventually, and this is the first step on that road. We can't simply leave him in the hands of Green Earth, no matter how well he might be treated." Sami avoided offering a second motive: that Eagle would do the same thing. He would say that your enemy's identity doesn't matter. If you have an enemy then they must be defeated, no quarter asked, no quarter given.

Rachel swallowed. "Alright. Thank you, Sami. That's all." She started to hobble away, her crutches tapping the floor. "The plan goes into motion tomorrow morning, at 0400 hours. You'd better get some sleep. We'll all need it."


	7. Once in a Royal Luna

An unplaceable noise escaped the Commander-in-Chief of Orange Star's armed forces. Somewhere past disappointment but far from resignation, Nell repeated it as she hung her briefcase over a swivel chair in the bustling command center. She set her violet cap onto the chair's counter and subconsciously swept a lock of blonde hair from her purple buttoned outfit.

Nell coolly inspected those within the room. Uniformed personnel shuffled back and forth, handling papers and documents, chatting on phones and examining printed readouts. The sheer numbers of military employees made the room seem much smaller than it actually was. It housed three rows of computer banks, twenty-one machines in all, each busy with a seated, engaged operator. All faced an enormous series of fixed monitors, set against the far wall in perfect alignment. An array of charts, maps, and numbers cluttered each screen. To a layman these figures would be unintelligible, but for Commander-in-Chief Nell they were the very lifeblood of her occupation.

While Nell kept her composure in front of the staff, the intelligent mind behind her smooth face worked ceaselessly. She'd just come from a meeting with the President himself, offering him a set of best- and worst-case scenarios and possible war strategies for the conflict with Green Earth. Predictably, he'd expressed his preference for the most middle-of-the-road option, though the ultimate decision lay with Nell. She didn't mind the current resident of the Central Office – he was a well-meaning man, somewhat acceptable to all parties – but he was still bound by politics and promises. The war hadn't escalated enough to force him to commit to one extreme or another. At least, it hadn't before Yellow Comet's de-facto entry. Yet he still dithered, unsure of the best possible course.

He would come around in time, Nell knew. The current official stance was that Green Earth was attempting to browbeat Orange Star into concessions. It was too early into the war to determine if they were succeeding. They'd taken the Omega Land forces by surprise, but in Cosmo Land even Admiral Drake's navy was ponderous and slow-moving, and Orange Star's presence in the West Moon Sea was considerable. However, these factors did not make things easy, Nell silently admitted. Drake was not the most famous naval commander in the world for nothing.

Macro Land had little to worry about, for now. The Orange and Green territories were separated by over a thousand kilometers of open sea. Yellow Comet was much closer, but there was time to prepare. Reinforcements were already undergoing mobilization in Macro.

But Nell knew that all hell could break loose at any point. Squadrons of long-range bombers were constantly ready to engage in sorties over Green Earth military installations and, if it came to it, population centers. The thought was not encouraging. Total war had not entered the equation yet, but modern politics were a fickle thing. At any point Serlin and Ulms could begin trading airborne explosives by the payload.

Nell multitasked, reviewing the strategic situation while absorbing the information on the crystal-clear monitors. It was a valuable skill that one could not survive without when confronted with a dozen important decisions each minute. All the while she signed off on several documents, only giving each a fraction of her attention. Bureaucracy was tedious, but in some ways it was what separated them from the likes of Blue Moon.

More staff members came and went, and she engaged in one- and two-sentence conversations with them, issuing orders to relay this and that. All normal. There was little reason to become worked up and overstressed, when a calm attitude sufficed.

Another individual moved to speak with her. This new person held no papers to sign, and she was not one of Nell's unofficial messengers. Her insignia told Nell she was a corporal, a strange rank to have in the center.

"Commander, there's a landline call waiting for you in the comm room."

"Who is it from?" Nell asked, diverting her eyes briefly from a clipboard on the counter.

The messenger's eyebrows came together. "Er, ma'am, that's a bit of a problem. Whoever it is refuses to give their identity to the comm staff, and we're having difficulty tracking it. They want to speak with you personally."

Nell sighed. In all likelihood the caller was a misguided, tech-savvy teenager looking to get his kicks by stirring up trouble in the middle of the country's problems. At the worst it was an enemy test of their cyberwarfare capabilities – to see if they could actually gain phone access to one of Orange Star's most heavily protected compounds. While the second possibility was foreboding, Nell was not alarmed. Information security breaches happened even on the best encrypted lines.

She shook her head. "I'm not interested. Tell whoever it is that if they don't wish to reveal their identity over the phone, they are more than welcome to come in person." A feeble attempt at humor, but there were more important things to be concerned about at the moment.

"Yes ma'am, but the caller said you'd say that. Almost word for word, actually."

_Interesting._ Now this wasn't one of the 'in all likelihood' possibilities_._ Nell turned to the staff member. "Really? Did they say anything else?"

"Yes ma'am, but it wasn't in the most_ formal_ fashion."

Nell smiled reassuringly, hoping to gain the woman's confidence. "That's alright. I'm willing to hear far more than our suited counterparts in the Central Office."

The corporal coughed and tugged at her uniform collar. "Well, he – we assume the caller's a he – said to 'get your pretty little tuckus over to the phone,' and, 'even I don't have all the patience in the world'."

Nell blinked. _What a personal method of address._ Still, it wouldn't do to exhibit a perverse manner over such a minor item. Her professional experience told her to ignore the call, but her intuition pinged like radar. She wavered for a moment, then picked up her clipboard and nodded. "Alright, I'll speak with this mystery man, if he is so insistent. Let's go."

The woman dipped her head and turned away, leading Nell through the maze of busy military workers. The main comm room wasn't too far, just two or three doors down the hall. As they exited into the corridor, Nell laughed under her breath.

"And Corporal?"

The woman looked over her shoulder. "Yes ma'am?"

"For the record, referring to my 'tuckus' and calling it 'pretty' will not ensure that I come running to solve every little problem. This is a one-time thing."

She smirked. "Duly noted, Commander."

The two reached the comm room and entered. It was considerably less noisy than the command center, but still lively and busy. The corporal led Nell to one particular phone line. Another individual was apparently holding the call. He held out the earpiece.

"Here you are, ma'am. Maybe you can find out who this kook is."

Nell received it and made a silent gesture, wordlessly asking if the call was being monitored. A nod answered. Of course they were monitoring it, Nell knew, but it always paid to be thorough.

She delicately cleared her throat. "This is Commander Nell. I understand you requested to speak with me? You should make it quick."

"Well, darlin', your boys there sure know their stuff, but I had a helluva time convincin' them to let me talk with you. We really should get some sorta two-way redphone, y'know?"

If Nell's job didn't necessitate a constant aura of self-control, she would have probably sputtered on her own breath. As it was, though, she retained her equanimity and smoothly engaged in conversation. "Sir, you're going to have to tell me who you are, or I will be forced to hang up and determine where you are calling from. This is a secure military connection and tampering with it is a federal offense."

"C'mon now, Nell, you know who yer speakin' to. Can't an old friend give ya a holler once in a _blue moon?_"

That sealed it. She pressed her lips tight, only allowing murmured words to escape, mainly to avoid dropping hints to her employees. "Grit, how did you get this line? And why are you calling? You know damn well–"

"Darlin', you're just gonna have to trust me on this. We fellas have our ways, you know? We're not as backwards as y'all seem to think we are. Now, I've got a couple important things to tell ya, if you can just hold your horses for two bits."

Nell pressed her index finger to her temple. Grit was certainly a character at times, but he never did things without a reason. It behooved her to hear this through. "Alright, but you have two _minutes_, and not a second more. As much as I would like to carry on with this chat," and despite her tone, that wasn't a lie, "I'm very busy, as you can imagine."

"I'm sure you are, Nell, though if you ask me, y'should just slow down and take yer time on occasion."

"Two minutes, Grit."

The voice on the other end yawned casually. "Right, right. Well, I think – and this is my opinion mind you, the Bearded One hasn't got a clue I'm talking with ya – that y'all should reexamine the whole Yellow Comet deal. I'm right in assumin' you had nothin' to do with Kanbei's buyin' the farm, yep?

"Correct. We don't know where that came from, but it wasn't a _sanctioned action_ by the Orange Star military."

"Mhm, I figured as much. Anyway, I'm sure you saw the broadcast and all. Sonja wasn't part of it, they pulled one of their 'ancient Yellow Comet tradition' things an' she ain't been seen since Kanbei's death."

"That's not unusual. My rudimentary knowledge of Yellow Comet culture tells me that it was just one of their rituals."

"Yea, well, I'm here to say that it's a buncha bologna. Actually, I've got someone else who's more'n expert on it than I am. Just a moment, darlin'."

Shuffling noises obscured more speech for a few moments. Nell waited patiently, but the clock was still ticking. She didn't have this kind of time to waste, even for a friend like Grit.

"Hello? Ma'am? Is this working?"

Another familiar voice, but Nell couldn't quite place it. "Yes, I can hear you. Who is this?"

"This is – er, well, Commander Gr– er, I mean, I'm not supposed to say any names, Commander Nell. Except yours! But I have something important to tell you!"

Nell smiled to herself. It was undoubtedly Colin, the youngest of Blue Moon's commanding officers. "Well, go ahead. We don't have all day," she urged him.

"Yes ma'am! At the Blue Moon Military Academy we spent a month on each of the world's major cultures, including Yellow Comet. And for, well, they said 'reasons of diplomatic conduct,' we covered the imperial family succession rites."

She wasn't following. "Alright, but what does that have to do with Yellow Comet and us?"

"Well ma'am, a lot of the traditional rites aren't really viewed as much in the modern day. Even a princess like Sonja doesn't have to hide herself from public view for three whole days. She could have given that speech to her people."

Hm. Now Nell's interest was piqued. "Go on."

"Well, what I guess I'm saying, ma'am, is that we all know Sonja. Even if her father died she would have given that speech, she's responsible like that. I think – er, we think – something else is going on in Yellow Comet!" Colin's pitch suggested that he could hardly contain his excitement over delivering such important information. Well, it was important to him. Nell would have to further examine and confirm his findings. She stroked her upper lip thoughtfully. Colin was young and still somewhat naïve when it came to the workings of war and international politics, but Blue Moon was home to some of the most thoroughly versed officers in the world. They were trained not only in leadership skills, but also introduced to cultural standards and customs. One of the many characteristics that defined the Blue Moon military was the effort that went into studying all possible enemies in all possible facets of life, in order to discern all possible weaknesses, tactical or intellectual. "That certainly is interesting, I will say that," she said noncommittally, "but it's not much to go off of."

"Er, I know, ma'am, but we felt you should know. This is your war, not ours. I'm going to give the phone back to Comm– er, I mean, well…"

More shuffling. Then the first speaker returned. "That's about it, Nell. This boy remembered the stuff and did some of his own diggin' on the matter. He's turning into a fine officer, I'll say. Now, he knows the facts but I've been doin' some thinkin' on my own. Sonja's a bright girl, and she's got her father's honor too. It just doesn't seem her kinda style to go along with these 'Orange Star agent' shenanigans. She woulda at least tried to figure it out over diplomatic talks with y'all. And she wouldn't go to war without havin' her forces ready to do it. Yellow Comet's got aways to go in gettin' their boys ready for a scrap."

Nell was not surprised in the least as she heard Grit's argument. He was a laid-back individual, never prone to rushing. He thought things through. Nell might have reached the same conclusions, had she the time, but right now her responsibility was fighting, not reasoning. "My first reaction is to agree with you, Grit, at least on a basic level. I'll have to validate all of this, of course, but I trust your judgment. Most of the time."

"Alright darlin'. You go ahead and set your intel guys on that little problem. As for us, I think that's about that. We're gonna cut off here just to be safe. Stay well."

"Thank you Grit. You too."

A click. The line buzzed. For a few moments Nell held the phone to her ear. She contemplated what she'd just heard. It could be nothing, she knew, but it wouldn't hurt to check out Colin and Grit's research. Grit was a good friend, and Colin was well-meaning enough that it probably wasn't a rouse designed to waste Nell's time.

She handed the receiver back to the phone operator. He and the corporal simply looked at Nell. Their expressions belied what was truly working behind their eyes, Nell guessed.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" one of them asked.

Nell exhaled and shifted her clipboard. "Yes, everything is fine. It was just…" She paused. How to explain the conversation to them? They would most likely respond with skepticism.

"It was just an old friend, trying to help."


	8. Haven Isn't

For the sixth time that morning, Christoph made absolutely sure that the heavy .50 caliber machine gun atop his Oberon was angled as high as possible. The last thing anyone wanted was an accidental weapon discharge at quarter past five. Everyone was on edge despite the ungodly hour, and Christoph predicted that more than a small fraction of his hundred sixty men had itchy trigger fingers.

His tank rumbled slowly down a street never meant to support 120,000 pounds of depleted uranium armor. The mounted weapon shook with the movement, creating a constant rattling undertone that went barely unobscured by the whining turbine engine. Christoph twisted around in his open hatch port and watched the dual tracks of crushed asphalt following the war machine's wake. The double yellow line in the center of the road rolled out broken, pieces jumbled. Christoph was jostled as something dense enough to resist the vehicle's pressure found its way under the treads. Most likely a larger chunk of asphalt dug up by another tank in the armored column. The next Oberon was a good fifteen yards ahead, obeying standard formation. A good portion of the Fort Iams company was making its way through the suburban area, and the military unit's presence hardly went unnoticed.

He looked forward and scanned the environment, half out of caution, half from curiosity. A few groups of civilians filed by on the sidewalks, moving south. They carried bags, luggage, whatever they could carry. They watched the Orange Star tanks crush the street that was once their domain. Christoph saw anger and sorrow written on their faces. These were the stragglers, the few remaining residents of Loch Haven that hadn't fled when the Green Earth conflict began a few days ago, those too stubborn to leave. Christoph couldn't blame them, really. They'd just returned a month and a half prior, when the last Black Hole war ended, and it was entirely within their right to wish to remain. But sometimes abandoning one's home was a necessary action. That was life. This was war.

The forty-strong armored company trekked north, with the intent of locating and engaging the advancing enemy. They moved as quickly as the narrow quarters would allow, at about half the Oberon's top speed of 42 miles per hour. Just as the roads weren't built for anything heavier than a truck, their layout was not intuitive as far as the military was concerned. Christoph's troops filtered along various routes through the town, but all were headed for the same destination.

His helmeted earphones beeped at him. Incoming transmission. He flicked a couple switches on a side panel just under his hatch rim, permitting the connection.

"This is Team Kilo, Delta 8, over."

The responding voice was fairly clear, even considering the distance between Loch Haven and Fort Iams. "Delta 8, this is Calendar. Just checking up on you. How does the area look? Any hostiles? Over."

Out of habit Christoph swept his surroundings again. Ranch and two-story houses panned by in the early morning light, most of them damaged in some way. A few lots were utterly destroyed; structural remains collapsed or charcoaled to a black husk, ordnance craters pocketing the dead brown lawns. Reconstruction had been started by a few bold souls, but now the piles of fresh lumber lay abandoned. It wasn't the prettiest sight in the world by far. It kind of reminded Christoph of his own hometown of Valleigh, including the devastation. In fact, Loch Haven seemed to have faired reasonably well compared to Valleigh. At least the inhabitants had been able to return, for a while.

"Nothing sighted yet, Calendar. The Greens are supposed to be a good thirty klicks northwest of here, right?"

"That's correct. Still, we can't be too careful." Commander Rachel was right in that regard. _Take no chances_. It was Christoph's newest and most tried-and-true motto. Fighting Green Earth was different from fighting Black Hole. Even if the groundhogs were much more willing to inflict damage on populations, it didn't mean the Greens were any less clever.

Christoph bounced again. His side dug painfully into the hatch's rubber sealing. He steadied himself with one hand on his machine gun's handle. "Alright, Calendar, good to know you guys are looking out for us. Honeywell is still lined up to give us support, I assume." Honeywell was the codename for Dorton Air Force Base and its complement of Dire Wolf close air support jets, as well as a few wings of Hawkeye superiority fighters.

"They are, Delta. Hopefully you can rest easier knowing the skies are safe. That's all, we'll get in touch with you in another twenty minutes. Calendar over and out."

Christoph flicked a couple switches and changed the radio channel. He toyed with the idea of checking with his forward armor, a five-tank platoon of Surefields, but instead he swapped channels once more to a tertiary connection. He adjusted his microphone before speaking.

"Sentinel, this is Delta 8. Requesting a report, over."

Broken white noise. The tank bumped again, and the sound veiled the first responding words, but Christoph could still recognize Sami's voice.

"…tinel. We've finished setting up… few multi-story buildings. Forward position is secure but…" The contact was drowned out by the clatter of heavy automatic gunfire.

Christoph cursed. Sami's men weren't undisciplined, they wouldn't be shooting birds or paint cans for kicks. They'd probably engaged with elements of the Green Earth force.

"Sentinel, repeat that please. I heard some action, what's going on up there? Over."

The gunfire ceased. "I said, we've encountered Green Earth reconnaissance troops. One recon truck, and… it's smoldering now, it looks like. With luck we killed it before it could send off a warning, not that it matters."

He agreed, it didn't matter. The enemy would know something was up in Loch Haven when they didn't get feedback from their recon. Even factoring that in, though, the Greens probably knew they were here, or had an inkling. Christoph hadn't seen or heard any aircraft fly overhead yet, but that didn't mean they weren't watching.

As he reviewed his extrapolations, Christoph felt a gnawing sensation return to the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling he'd experienced yesterday, when Rachel had first assigned him the role of armor commander, and when they'd reviewed their battle plans in the war room. It'd been refreshing, though, to learn that Sami was as much a part of the plan as he was, and more refreshing when she insisted to the CG that she personally fill the infantry field commander position, rather than remain at Fort Iams with Rachel and Jake. Christoph knew that his post-headquarters ordeal had fomented a personal trust for Sami, as much as he trusted Sepp and his platoon officers. The knowledge that she was out there, a few kilometers to the north and keeping an eye out for him and his troops, was supportive.

Didn't stop his stomach from turning, though. When he spoke again he was fairly sure his voice held a touch of unease. "Alright, Sentinel. As long as you and your men are fine. You think the Greens are close? Over."

"Can't tell, Delta. We're watching. Sentinel over and out."

Static again. Christoph drew a shuddering breath. _Can't tell_. She couldn't tell if the enemy was out there? Did that mean they'd sighted something? Or was it just Sami's way of saying all was quiet? Christoph wasn't sure, and the unknown was the worst fear for any military officer. Intel was crucial. Intel allowed him to issue proper orders. Without it he was in the dark. His stomach muscles tightened once more, and the less-than-gentle swaying of his Oberon didn't help.

(())

Despite its vital function in any mechanized infantry platoon, the appropriately named Cornerstone infantry fighting vehicle wasn't the most comfortable or user-friendly machine in the Orange Star Army. In fact, Sami reflected, to her knowledge _none_ of the vehicles in the OSA's inventory could be graded as _comfortable_. But she'd given up on trying to achieve that impossible status, and decided to remain outside her idling Cornerstone instead. She lay prone on the rough sidewalk concrete a few meters from the IFV, scrutinizing the brightening horizon with a pair of low-light binoculars. Other than the dark patterns of her jacket and the cover of the relatively dim early dawn, she was essentially unprotected. She knew it too, but those thoughts had no place in her head on the eve of battle. She disregarded them as best she could, but, as always, they waited ominously on her mind's edge, ready to return when the shells started falling. She had no regrets about moving her command to the field, though. It was where she belonged.

She removed the binoculars and comforted herself with the sight of her armored bodyguard. The IFV was nestled at the corner of a small hardware store, the alleyway between it and the next structure large enough to grant the vehicle room to maneuver. It was a variant of the standard Cornerstone, designed for scouting purposes. It didn't cart around the usual six infantrymen, but was cluttered with electronics and carried only two additional passengers, plus the crew of three. Sami was one of those passengers. Her counterpart was still inside the IFV, having jumped in after the Cornerstone destroyed the Green Earth recon unit.

The remains of the enemy truck burned a quarter of a kilometer up the street, eerily illuminating the flanking foliage. The trees swayed silently in an unfelt breeze, running parallel with the road into the far-off plains. A corridor of death that the recon had foolishly decided to explore. It was just a dying smudge of flame now, the fuel rapidly devoured and the fire finding nothing further to consume.

They'd quickly relocated after the Cornerstone's 25 mm chain gun had so kindly punched a string of holes in the recon's chassis. However, the wreckage would serve as a homing beacon for the enemy, something that bothered Sami. They were risking their necks staying so close to the site of the engagement. At the very least they'd moved to avoid a possible blind-fire counterstrike on their former position, but she'd feel much safer another hundred meters south. Her job, though, was to scout for the main enemy force, and it was a task she intended to carry out.

Sami tilted her head left and right, her neck vertebrae clicking loudly in her ears. Other than the IFV's low grumble and the noiselessly flaming debris, not a sound disturbed the deserted town's stillness. The Fort Iams mechanized infantry platoon was fairly well trained. _For Army grunts_. They weren't Special Ops but Sami would make do with what she had.

She summoned a mental image of the area. Her platoon was situated on the north edge of Loch Haven, spread between a series of family-owned businesses, tiny parking lots, and small stretches of grass. A larger building, one Sami assumed was the town hall, sat across the street from her position. The platoon's second Cornerstone IFV was a few streets away, guarding the northeastern approach: an unlikely direction for attack, but Sami wanted all her bases covered. Her two squads of ten infantry, each split into two fireteams, were holed up at strategic points along the main town roads within a half kilometer of her position. Both squads also had a ferrying APC, but those were farther south, to avoid enemy fire.

Twenty infantrymen. Two scouts for each of the Cornerstones. Two drivers for each of the APCs. Six IFV crewmembers. 34 men total, an average platoon size.

"_Lieutenant Colonel. Ma'am."_ The loud whisper came from the IFV. She rolled halfway over to look, and the other Cornerstone scout, head poking from the rear of the vehicle, motioned to her. Sami shot a quick glimpse towards the dead truck before sitting up and into a crouch. She kept her head low and moved for falldoor. The scout disappeared into the vehicle's interior.

The metal walls within the Cornerstone were home to racks of equipment, devices, and a few rifles. The light wasn't terribly intense, and Sami's eyes needed no adjustment. She found a place in the cramped quarters. "What is it Private?"

The scout partially removed his helmet, exposing his ears. He did not whisper now. "Alfa squad just reported in, they've spotted movement to the northwest. They're pretty sure it's light armor."

So, this was it. Zero hour. Not the time to lose composure. Sami set her binoculars on a rack. "Pretty sure? Wars aren't won with _pretty sure_, Private. I want them to _make_ sure."

The lines in the man's face deepened. "Yes ma'am." No matter how ready these men had been to fight under Sami's command, she wasn't going to give them an inch of leeway.

As he reset his headpiece, Sami retrieved another receiver, the one she'd used to contact Christoph. She ensured the channel was still set properly, then took a few steps away from her companion and compressed the talk button.

"Delta 8, this is Sentinel, come in, over."

Christoph scratched over the device once again. "Sentinel, this is Delta 8. What's new out there?"

"My troops have spotted some activity on the northwest edge of town. It looks like…" she stopped briefly to glance at the private. He finished speaking with Alfa squad and nodded his head to Sami, holding up four fingers.

"It looks like there are some light tanks advancing on Loch Haven. Four-strong platoon. No idea if they know we're here, over."

"Alright. We're still a few klicks back in the residential area. You good to engage?"

_Good to engage._ Good to distract was more accurate. Rachel's orders called for Sami's forces to take out light armor and vehicles if they attempted to gain a foothold in the town, to fend off the forward pieces of the enemy force until Christoph's company could close in. If the incomings had been Lynx, they would've retreated – the infantry squads didn't have the firepower to take out the Green Earth main battle tanks. The Cornerstone TOWs could suffice, but they could only launch two before reloading and they had to be stationary to do it.

"Roger that, we're set. Holding the fort until you all arrive. Over and out."

She ended the call. The private was watching her intently. Sami eyed him.

"We're taking them out. Let's move."

It was all she had to say. This man was a veteran, Sami could tell. He knew his responsibilities. He squeezed through the small passage between the infantry hold and the driver's chair to relay Sami's instructions. The engine revved a moment later, and the rear falldoor slowly folded closed. It sealed with a _click_, leaving Sami only with artificial lighting as company. The IFV rumbled into motion.

Her first true combat in the Green Earth war. She wanted to think that it was just like any other conflict. That her duties were the same as they'd always been. But something was different, and she knew could pinpoint that difference precisely.

(())

"Team Kilo, listen up. Our scouts have spotted the Greens to the northwest. You all know your orders, so let's execute them to the letter. Draw 'em in and hammer 'em.

"I don't need to remind you all that while keeping the town intact is a _secondary priority,_ there will be no wanton destruction on my watch. We're not groundhogs. It's what separates us from them." Christoph grit his teeth. "But – remember. Our primary objective is still to drive off or break the enemy. _Do what you have to do_. Delta 8 over and out."

Only the platoon leaders acknowledged so the radio wasn't jumbled with thirty-nine different responses. Not much of a speech. These men were unfamiliar with his command, but it would have to suffice. As long as they were properly trained they would listen to him as though he were Captain Jake. Jake had prepped them beforehand, listing Christoph's combat record in an effort to boost their confidence in an unfamiliar leader. Now Christoph would see – and experience – if that pep talk had any effect.

The new day was bright enough to extend Christoph's vision, revealing his tanks fanning out. Some remained on the road while a few took shortcuts through what were once front yards and housing properties. It pained Christoph to watch the living grass and soil churned up as the armor treads bit into the dirt. A necessary pain. There would be no avoiding it, though he hoped to keep at least the houses intact. Actually, he'd hoped to make it out of Loch Haven entirely before running into the Greens. A shame, they wouldn't get the chance.

He tuned into his Oberon's personal channel. "Alright 30, let's get going. Now, just 'cause you've got me as your tank commander doesn't mean we get an exemption from my terms. Don't go busting through houses if you can help it. I'm still outside up here, you know?"

The driver merely answered: "Yes, sir." Apparently he didn't find Christoph's stab at a joke witty. Well, not everyone was going to be like his platoon. He'd given it a shot, at least.

30 rolled west, quite literally off the beaten path. An untouched four-foot section of wooden fence, a monument that, against all odds, survived the last war, vanished under the front of the tank with barely a crunch. The Oberon trudged on through someone's dead garden. Christoph gazed at the lot's house: a small, simply decorated one-story structure. It looked ludicrously small even compared to the tank, perhaps only twice the size of his Oberon. It reminded him of his own former home in Valleigh. His parents, now in their mid-sixties, had planned on reconstructing it. They still owned the land, and they'd lived there for decades. It seemed unlikely that they would get a chance now.

30 growled through the backyard and into the next lot over. Christoph shook his head clear. He had to focus. Towns weren't made up of houses and buildings, towns were the people. Even if Loch Haven was utterly decimated in the upcoming battle, the people would survive. They would return and build once again. He had to hold onto that notion, so that he could execute his task without losing sleep over the condition of the properties.

A strange, high-pitched noise caught Christoph's attention and provided a diversion. The eerie resonance was closer to a screech than a diesel or turbine engine. He looked south. A group of bizarre, rounded shapes scooted between structures. Judging from their silhouettes, each was about the size of an Oberon, but they moved far too quickly and maneuvered so deftly that it was impossible they were standard armor. It took Christoph a couple seconds to realize he was watching a squadron of Neotanks weave between obstacles and debris. The company included a platoon. He'd seen them in combat before but it didn't make them any less impressive now. He was fortunate to have them on his side, even if their design was unnerving. Using Black Hole tech just felt wrong, though. But they were his trump card, his queen piece. And in all probability those five machines would be the key to defeating the Greens.

(())

Sami saw them before she heard them, given the armored hull of the Cornerstone. Her personal external viewing port was partially obscured by a low-hanging branch, but it worked well enough. It was worth the cover of the trimmed shrubbery: a set of bushes and a single tree planted next to brick and stone. With an ounce of luck, the enemy wouldn't even notice the IFV.

She hated to rely on luck but their choices were limited. It was either that or take their chances in the open, which wasn't viable at all. The enemy would target them in an instant, and Sami had every intention of going home alive.

Agonizing seconds passed as she waited for the Green Earth armor to come around the far building. Eventually she was rewarded – a poorly detailed shape rolled into view. It wasn't big, maybe half again as large as a pickup truck. It slowed for a moment, then made a lazy turn and started down the street. Sami processed the outline and stubby cannon barrel and labeled it as a Jackal light tank. Just as Alfa reported. Good.

She dared rotate her viewer, watching the dark, shattered second-story windows of the building in question. No movement. Also good. Her troops, hidden within its shadowed recesses, were staying out of sight until the proper moment.

She pivoted down again. Another tank crawled onto the street, then another. A fourth followed up, taking the rear, and Sami waited for any additional platoon members. None came. This only confirmed Alfa's description, and solidified her trust in them. They'd given an accurate report, 100% correct. Now it was time to see if they were as capable in combat. _Now is when nerves break down._

The first of the four treaded halfway down the block. Almost time. Sami's palms were slick against the viewer's handles. It was her task to initiate the strike, something she'd done dozens if not hundreds of times in the past. She calculated the distances, determined the best spot, and analyzed the enemy positions, all while running through an intangible checklist. Almost time…

She took a breath and held it, and even the silence was deafening within the voiceless IFV. _Just a few more feet. A few more._

Her lips parted in anticipation. _One more yard_…

For a fraction of a second she worried that her vocal cords would not oblige, that some deeper part of her would physically prevent her from issuing the order. Irrational and unsound, but the fear was present nonetheless. The memory of the forest returned again, at the worst possible time.

_I will be damned if I repeat that crap._

And so single forced, gasping word came forth:

"Go."

The IFV shuddered as the first TOW anti-tank missile was released. A split second later its rocket blazed, and Sami only experienced a streak of bright over her viewer and a muffled sound akin to rushing wind. Then all was fire.

The hydraulics hummed as the turret above rotated to track the next target. The Cornerstone's gunner yelled something. With unparalleled precision, the second TOW launched the moment the turret halted. Sami watched the second projectile annihilate the next tank in a flash.

That was all the time they had. The element of surprise was depleted, as was their ammunition. She slammed the viewer away and grasped a roof rung.

"MOVE!"

The driver didn't give her orders a second thought. The IFV plowed into reverse, backing from its covered position with as much urgency as possible. Sami did her best to steady her stance in the infantry hold but she half-fell into an available bench seat. Now they were dependant on the infantry squads to take out the final two machines. There was little else her crew could do, save distract the enemy. As if in response to her thoughts, the Cornerstone's chain gun blasted away, sending shockwaves through the metal hull.

"They coming this way?" she yelled.

Someone, she wasn't sure if it was one of the crew or the scout, yelled back. "Dunno! Maybe Alfa and Bravo squads got 'em."

Then, "_Fuck!_"

That wasn't encouraging. The IFV commander bellowed something to his driver, but the chain gun started up again, blanketing his words. Suddenly Sami wasn't so sure that her decision to take to the field had been a smart move.

All was commotion. The vehicle swerved, still moving backwards. The crew shouted at each other. It was impossible for Sami to determine what was going on. She couldn't see the outside world, and she was in no place to look through the viewer.

"Shit!"

"Get to cover-"

"POP SMOKE! POP SMOKE!"

The Cornerstone's gun ceased fire and there was the reverberating _thud_ of the smoke canisters releasing.

But they didn't help.

A blast. The IFV jarred at a sharp angle. Sami underwent a phase of vertigo, and inexplicably she was trapped. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe. Her ears were ringing. She tried to move but there was something heavy on top of her. Where was she? In the Cornerstone. Right. _What the hell is this deadweight-_

A limp, warm hand came in contact with hers. Sami was already adversely acquainted with that sort of touch. The weight on top of her was a body. _The scout? What happened?_ A Jackal shell, probably. She collected her scattered thoughts. If they'd been hit, she had to get out. The crew, too. At least to avoid a fuel or ammunition explosion, if not a follow-up strike.

She heaved the weighted body and managed to remove it. The infantry hold was filled with gray, a mix of the smoke launchers and burning fuel. It was hard to breathe. She traced her fingers along the soldier's neck and found no pulse. He was gone. No time to think about it. As Sami scrambled to stand, she painfully bumped her head on something metal. _Fuck!_

She blinked but it didn't help. Was the rest of the crew alright? Had one of the enemy tanks gotten through? They'd been hit, probably. No telling if they'd be hit again. Sami felt for the rear exit. It was still shut. She pushed on it in the vain hope that it'd been blown open by the impact but it wouldn't budge. She took a step back and rammed a boot into the door. A metallic clang was the only result.

_Have to find another way out_. Her lungs burned. She backtracked, guiding herself through the sheet of haze by the IFV's scattered equipment. Her foot kicked something. A rifle. She seized it, checked the safety, and continued to the front of the vehicle.

The smoke ostensibly declined to dissipate, and Sami still couldn't see her own hands in front of her face. She pawed to the right and left. More bodies. She checked one. Dead. The other-

A faint beat, evidence of pumping blood. He could be dying, she knew. He could be bleeding profusely from an unseen wound, but without her sight Sami wouldn't be able to establish if that was the case. But if she wanted to save him, she'd first have to save herself. As gently as time and lack of air allowed, she slumped the living gunner forward, and then stepped up and onto his former seat. She frantically palmed the ceiling. The hatch was still closed. For a moment as she jimmied the handle she feared it'd been fused shut, but after some cajoling the round port opened.

Smoke poured into the open air as Sami tossed the rifle outside and dragged herself onto the IFV's turret, drawing deep lungfuls of fresh air. _Dear God, _it was the sweetest taste in the world, even if it was tinged with diesel fumes. The unmistakable crackle of something burning was the only sound to be heard. Sami removed her legs from the hatch, pushed matted red hair from her eyes, and tried to get her bearings.

The IFV had essentially moved in a straight line backwards, away from the location of the opening TOW strike. The view awarded by the sideroad held only the Cornerstone's former hiding spot and a smoking, stationary Jackal. The dead tank's cannon pointed portentously towards the IFV, but it would fire no more. The slightly offset angle of the turret indicated the deathblow had come from the occupied building. _Thank God for the grunts_.

But the front of her vehicle was utterly demolished, the driver's hatch ripped open to reveal nothing but burnt black and spattered red. The driver himself was nowhere to be seen. She squeezed her eyes shut. She told herself it was to protect them from the stinging smoke. But in her heart she knew the driver was dead, and his death had been most gruesome, if not sudden.

_Think about it later_. There were other things to worry about. She rubbed her smoke-irritated eyes and knelt to reach down into the Cornerstone. The gray stuff continued to expel itself from the metal husk, so Sami could only blindly feel for the gunner. She found his helmet, then his shoulder, and took a firm grip on his gear strap. With a mighty pull, she strained to lift him. She immediately determined it wouldn't be an easy task. The man probably weighed close to 200 pounds with all of his equipment. She reset her weight and pulled again. He budged a few inches.

She already felt lightheaded. The diesel vapors rushed to her brain with each inhalation, but she ground her teeth and steeled her muscles, willing the unconscious body to move. _Come on, damn it. This thing could blow any second. I don't want to die, and you don't want to die, and I'm trying to save your life, so work with me!_

Another pull brought the man's helmeted head through the hatch but he would not rise any higher. A piece of his gear was probably caught on something. She heaved and heaved but it was clear he was stuck. The heat from the burning fuel wasn't letting up either, and she knew if she stayed much longer she'd either pass out from the fumes or die when the ammo or fuel tank cooked off.

It was so unfair. Here she was trying desperately to save someone's life and heaven wasn't offering any aid. Wasn't this what she was supposed to do? Never leave a fellow soldier behind? And now it could mean her own death. She couldn't help but curse a blue streak as she poured everything ounce of strength she had into lifting the man the final few feet.

"_Goddamnit_, _come ON!_"

As though the words themselves cut through the fabric, there was a faint ripping sound and the gunner was suddenly free. Sami fell backwards as his form breached the hatch, his torso settling on the turret's roof. She almost rolled off herself, catching the vehicle's gun barrel with her foot, halfway sprawled over the front of the turret.

The sheer expenditure of energy left her panting, and it only quickened the pace at which she was losing focus. _Not done. Come on girl, move._ Every action became exponentially more difficult as the fumes clouded her head. She grabbed a protruding instrument and pulled herself back onto the IFV's top, next to the unconscious soldier. She wouldn't be able to lift him again, she knew, but he wore a helmet and a good amount of gear. He had enough armor on, and he'd probably prefer a concussion or broken bone to being cooked alive.

_Ok, decision made. Do it._ Her strength was nearly exhausted but she had to finish. She struggled to sit upright and fold her knees, pushing the soldier towards the edge of the IFV. Actually, it was more like she leaned into him.

The gunner rolled once. Sami crawled forward, eyes watering from the effort and the diesel, and heaved the man one last time. Slowly, excruciatingly, the limp body wilted over the side. He hit the ground, nine feet south, with a _thump._

Sami tossed the rifle down too. She nearly followed in the same manner, legs shaky and weak from lack of proper oxygen. She descended from the turret and welcomed the wave of relief as her feet found the ground. _Not out of the fire yet_. She stumbled over to the gunner, quickly slinging the rifle strap around his neck and almost tripping over him in the process. As she dragged him away from the burning Cornerstone, foot by foot, Sami's senses gradually returned. The air was cleaner. No more fuel, no more smoke. She only ended up about twenty feet away, but it was good enough. She rounded an abandoned car, using it as possible shielding. They were safe.

Sami collapsed against the civilian vehicle, wheezing. She coughed and nearly spat up. An overwhelming urge to sleep draped over her. No, not now. She had to make contact with one of the squads. It would be their only chance. There was no way she could carry the 200 pound soldier any more than a dozen yards, even with her focus and strength replenished in the clear air. It just wouldn't be feasible.

She glanced over her Cornerstone gunner, then leaned forward and rolled him onto his side, checking for wounds. None visible. But he didn't have a radio either. Only a sidearm, his body armor, and his helmet. Right now he was a useless piece of flesh, knocked out cold. With any luck he'd come around soon.

But the concept that he might not dawned on Sami. Ever. There was no telling what sort of internal injuries he'd taken. Could just be some cracked ribs. Could be a punctured organ. Could be brain damage.

_It wouldn't be fair. He got another chance, he can't die now._

Foolish hopes weaved at a desperate time. Sami had no control over whether he lived or died. Right now her main priority was somehow getting in touch with Alfa or Bravo. Maybe they'd find her here.

She'd saved one man's life. But it was three too few. _Should've taken a better position. Should've called the other IFV over to help in the strike. Then maybe those men wouldn't have died._ Sami was far too sapped and drained to combat these thoughts. She just comforted herself with the knowledge that she'd done all she could.

Done all she could. There was nothing else. These things happen. This is war. Those men's lives couldn't have been saved. They died for their country.

_Right?_

If Sami was looking for an answer from her own heart, she found none.


	9. Trading Souls

"Sentinel, come in Sentinel, this is Delta 8."

Nothing but static. Christoph wiped his dampening brow with his sleeve. Damn it, why wasn't Sami responding? He needed an ID on the Greens. Needed to know if the enemy light armor made it into the town. He didn't want his Surefields engaging them if they didn't have to.

"Sentinel, _please_ come in, over."

A crackle. _Finally_. A stifled voice answered. "Delta 8, this is Sentinel-2. We've lost contact with Sentinel Main, no idea what happened. Last we knew Main was with Alfa and Bravo, engaging the targets. We're still a klick east of their last known position. Awaiting your orders. Over."

_Lost contact? Awaiting my orders?_ Christoph was stung by several sets of impossible choices. What the hell happened to Sami? And her men? "Ah, alright, Sentinel-2. Any word from Alfa and Bravo squads?"

"Negative, they went radio silent before the strike, just in case. Once their area is clear they'll give us a holler."

Damn it. None of this was following arrangement. _Still, no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy_. Had to make a quick decision. But he was at a loss. Of all the things he'd accounted for, all the mental contingency preparations he'd made, he hadn't expected to lose contact with Sami so early on. He faltered for a moment, unsure of what path to take.

"Ok, keep an eye out for the enemy. Get in touch with me if Main, Alfa, or Bravo calls back. Otherwise stay put. Over."

"Roger that, Delta. Sentinel-2 oh n' oh."

Shit. He had to head in without a forward scout. A terrible move, but they were compelled to stop Green Earth _here_. There weren't any other options. Otherwise they'd squeeze right past Fort Iams.

He swapped the radio. "Team Kilo, this is Delta 8. Keep an eye out for hostiles, we've got no word back from Sentinel. If you see our scouts, speak up. Delta over and out."

With that, Christoph decided it was time to bundle up. Without reports from the front, he didn't want to be any more exposed than he had to. He lowered himself into the Oberon's turret and took the hatch with him. It shut with a hiss, sealing him inside 30's belly.

As he settled into his cramped commander's seat he glanced to the loader. "HEAT round up?"

Moisture beaded on the man's brow, and his face was flushed. "Yessir, all set."

"Good. I want you to help me scan for targets in between shells. We need the eyes."

"You got it, sir." The man turned to comply. But first he looked sideways at Christoph. "Sir… is Sentinel dead?"

Christoph did his best not to betray his feelings on the matter. Is that what the man thought? Is that what his company thought? He wasn't sure how to answer honestly. Was Sami, the renowned Special Ops commander, dead? He ardently hoped that wasn't the case, but he truthfully had no idea.

"No," he insisted. "Her team went radio silent. They're probably in a firefight with the forward Green Earth elements, or waiting for the Greens to trip over them."

He turned his voice to the rest of the crew. "And that's why we have to move double time. Let's punch it, it's time to relieve the straightlegs and kick some ass."

The driver – who'd previously responded without emotion – now let out a whoop. "Yessir, those fucking Greens won't know what hit 'em!" The rest of 30's crew followed similarly, with jeering comments directed at their newfound enemies.

Christoph almost smiled. The only thing stopping him was the fact that they were talking about _Green Earth_. Former allies. It still felt strange, even now, broiled in the conflict as they were, to discuss them in such a derogatory manner. But it would be counterproductive to gainsay his crew's feelings. He settled on an impartial nod.

"Damn straight. Let's roll."

If the Oberon could've moved any quicker while lacing among the residential properties, Christoph was sure the driver would've maxed out the throttle. Not that Oberons needed to move faster than they already did. 30 miles per hour offroad was a considerable feat for a tank, and that was with the engine governor in place. If required, the governor could be removed, giving the Oberon an unheard-of top speed of 60 mph on paved surfaces.

Christoph steadied himself as the tank bounced along the terrain, and attended his display. There was no point in using the thermal or the extension, as 30 was just about smack in the middle of the company's loose formation. Visual responsibilities lay with the perimeter tanks. Instead he received electronic feedback from his armor, and appraised the situation, accurately fixing a strategic picture in his mind's eye.

An eventless minute of helmet bumping and elbow nudging passed before the northern Surefields reported in.

"Delta 8, we've spotted them. At least three platoons of Lynx, a little over two miles north-northwest of our position."

Christoph wasted no time. He didn't want the light tanks to risk engagement; they were the closest thing he had to scouts now. "Alright. Fall back, join up with the closest Oberon platoon. Don't get cocky, let the mediums do the work. Delta out." As quickly as he relayed the instructions, he cut off, noted the Surefields' grid position, and called upon HQ. The next connection was almost instant.

"Calendar, Calendar, this is Delta 8. We have confirmed visual of the enemy, requesting immediate sweep from Honeywell, grid zero-seven-four, niner-eight-zero, over." Two kilometers' worth of grid north of the Surefields.

The military dispatcher confirmed, "Roger that, Delta. Sending a line to Honeywell. Calendar over and out."

And it was done. The Dire Wolf aircraft were on their way. With any luck they'd tip the balance in Orange Star's favor. At the thought, a wave of out-of-place euphoria swept Christoph. Suddenly he had no misgivings. If Intel was at all correct about the enemy's strength, he now had the advantage.

A smirk crossed his lips. _Let them come_.

(())

_Not now, damnit, now not._ Sami's spirits fell as she watched at least two platoons of Lynx crest a knoll and begin their trek south, en route for Loch Haven. They were still a two and a half kilometers off, but that was three kilometers too close. She needed more time. She uselessly cursed the sun for rising too fast on this particular day. It only served to highlight her position.

She grunted and dragged the still-unconscious crewman along the concrete. The Cornerstone seeped black and gray a dozen meters down the sideroad. It emitted a few pops and bangs every now and then, most likely the chain gun ammo cooking. The TOW storage hadn't detonated yet, though, and if it hadn't by now it wasn't going to at all. The fire was dying. But the dark smoke curling into the sky formed a misshapen pillar, a mark on which Green Earth would surely close in.

_Gotta find Alfa or Bravo._ Surviving the IFV's destruction, carrying her rifle, and hauling the gunner were all taking their toll on Sami's stamina. She didn't need this shit. Not after surviving HQ, surviving the forest. What a bad lot to draw. Why the _hell_ had she chosen to take field command?

_No. Don't think. Just do._ Sweat found its way past her headband and dripped from her nose. Her muscles were lead. The gunner refused to help, still out. Sami released him with a gasp. She needed a rest. She used the time to check his pulse again. Still there, still faint. It hadn't become any weaker, though, so that was a good sign.

They were covered from the north by a brick structure, so Sami left the man where he was and unslung her rifle. She flicked the safety off and propped the butt against her shoulder, then slowly padded up the sidewalk, staying crouched. She slunk into the shrubbery that had provided concealment to the IFV and carefully nudged her way through, using her firearm's barrel to prod the spruced leaves and branches out of the way. The greenery alternatively tickled and scratched her skin as she was enveloped in the plant life, camo body armor jacket and fatigues blending in easily.

Sami peered up the street along her rifle's iron sights. The broken Jackals copied the Cornerstone and leaked curls of smoke. The closest, turret slanted, was not ten feet away. Its occupants were most certainly dead. Jackals, like Surefields, weren't heavily armored and rarely sustained more than a single hit from an anti-tank weapon.

One of the light tanks was missing its turret completely. Another sported a large hole, edged by ragged, ripped metal. The two targets that the Cornerstone's TOWs had made short work of.

The final Jackal sat dead in the center of the road, squarely even over the yellow divider. It looked fairly intact, but smaller pieces of burned scrap surrounded the wreckage haphazardly. The scrap was almost completely black, too. _Fire must've been hot-_

Then Sami noticed the Jackal's open hatch, and the positioning of the fragments. They weren't metal pieces. They were bodies. Two of the crew escaped, their clothes and skin ablaze. They'd burned to death after they'd crawled, hand over blistering hand, from their vehicle. Hardly recognizable as human now.

She found herself offering a whispered prayer for their souls. _Poor bastards._ She swallowed hard. Was that sanctioned? Praying for the enemy's dead? Screw it if it wasn't. They were still people, human beings that had once breathed the air, as she did now, however shallowly. No one deserved a fate like that. _Damn war._

Movement caught Sami's eye, severing her sympathetic musings, and she swung her rifle's barrel around to center on the building across the street. She watched as the main entrance door cracked, allowing a single figure to emerge. He wore a full complement of infantry gear: Kevlar helmet, strapped pack, infantry rifle. The figure cautiously stepped forward, carbine at the ready, and glanced up and down the road.

_Alfa. It's about time._ The infantryman made an indistinguishable gesture. Then he waved one arm in a slow arc, as though hailing a friend across the street. As if following stage cue, more soldiers filed out of the opposing buildings in simultaneous pairs and began to move down the road.

Sami licked her lips. She didn't want to startle them and risk getting killed, but she had to make herself known. There were several course of action that she could take in that regard, all packaged with potential risks of being shot up.

The infantry scooted southwards, weapons at shoulder level. Bravo, the squad on her side of the street, closed on her position, moving urgently but in a disciplined line, the soldiers covering one another. They didn't notice her in the brush as they turned the corner and headed for the IFV.

One of them spoke. "There it is Sergeant. Looks like it took a hit."

Another infantryman, presumably Bravo's sergeant, trained his rifle in a semi-circle, covering the debris. "Ok. Benson, Jenski, check it out. See if there are any survivors. Get your asses moving, we have to skedaddle ASAP. Greens are incoming."

Sami inhaled. Might as well save them the time and effort. She handled her rifle with one arm, barrel to the dirt, and gave the challenge, still concealed: "Wrinkle."

At least four soldiers spun on heel, threatening to turn the talking shrubs into heaps of freshly cut grass. The challenge was promptly matched: "Bait."

Sami emerged slowly, firearm still low. As she materialized from the bush, she met the squad leader's eyes. "It's me, Sergeant. You can lower your weapons."

They didn't immediately react, weapons still holding Sami's forehead in line of fire. Then, almost grudgingly the guns dropped. The sergeant's lower jaw jutted out. "Colonel? That you?"

"Yes, it is. You have no idea what a relief it is to see you all." Truth. Being alone was the worst situation for any soldier in a hostile environment. She reset her grip on her rifle, grasping it by the barrel, and pointed to the gunner that she'd left a few paces away. "Someone get him. He's the only survivor, besides me."

The sergeant followed her finger, catching sight of the unconscious man, and barked an order to another two soldiers. "Drag him up, we've gotta take him back to the APC. Move!" He turned back to Sami. "Sergeant Morris, ma'am. We saw the Jackal cannon fire, and the smoke. Alfa got one, but our Spearhead didn't knock out our target with the first shot." He threw a thumb towards the closest tank.

Sami wiped moisture from her nose. "It happens, Sergeant," but even as she said it she wished she could believe it herself. She still involuntarily contemplated what she could've done differently to alter outcome of the engagement. She came up with a dozen different options, knowing each was more tactically unsound than the last. _Hindsight is 20/20._

The two infantrymen named Benson and Jenski returned from the IFV's rubble. "There's nothin' left, Sergeant. The falldoor's jammed shut and the inside's all mussed up."

As they relayed this information, another soldier approached, the gunner's arm around his neck. It appeared that the man was slowly regaining consciousness. He stumbled over his own feet but managed to stay upright, blinking around, obviously dazed.

The Sergeant patted him on a shoulder. "Hey, soldier, you good? How you feel?"

The gunner looked at Morris with a stunned expression. "I'm thirsty."

"What's your name, son?"

"Uh, Zerangi." His eyes brightened a little. "Sir."

Sergeant Morris hawked and spat. "Ok. We've got Lieutenant Colonel Sami here, and this Zerangi guy. We're gonna escort them back to the APC-"

"No," Sami interjected.

All eyes turned to her. "Sorry ma'am?"

She shook her head. "We don't have time. Green Earth armor is going to be on top of us before then. We're following Alfa squad, and taking up refuge in another building."

It was apparent that Sergeant Morris did not normally have his tactical orders superseded. His mouth opened and closed in search of a mild-mannered retort, but he thought better of it. "Yes ma'am. You're the boss." He set his carbine across one shoulder in a mocking display of cinematic war flicks. "Where to?"

She heaved her rifle into both hands. "Same direction as Alfa, same set up. They'll take a position on one side of the street, we'll take the other. There are a couple more office buildings down this road, but not too many. We won't take chances. There aren't many places to run to once Green Earth figures out where we are. Get Alfa on your radio and tell them."

He dipped his helmet towards her. "Alright ma'am. Your call." Morris picked out a couple men. One he assigned to assist the gunner. The other he had relay Sami's instructions to Alfa squad. Then they rallied, and the group moved south along concrete and asphalt once again.

Sami took up a space in the middle of the squad. This gave a whole new meaning to the term _field command_. Years-old memories of her experiences with the grunts resurfaced. She was a little rusty when it came to personal infantry combat, but she didn't plan on having her men engage any targets. That task was more suited to Christoph and his armor.

Survival was the name of the game, now. Survival. Hold out until they were relieved. _Do what you have to do._

A remote _boom_ startled each member of the squad, even those battle-hardened, including Sami. She pinned the sound as tank fire. Somewhere, one of the factions had spotted the other and unleashed a cannon round. The fact that she was still alive and hadn't detected the effects of the impact meant that her troops weren't under attack. Good, they still had time.

But not much.

(())

Distant flashes of light, overwhelmed by the rising sun, bore the news that Christoph anticipated. His forward elements were engaging. He wasn't exactly sure which platoons, but the information on his display gave him a rough idea. Now he had to wait impatiently for one of his tanks to report. The crews, though, were focused on surviving – only once they'd secured their lives would they make radio contact.

Far-off smoke plumes faded into the morning air in the midst of a concentrated office complex. He worked to identify them but it proved difficult. It wasn't possible they were constituents of Team Kilo, for combat had just begun. The prospect that Sentinel Main was emitting one of the plumes, though, didn't escape Christoph. He knew full well they might flag Sami's platoon. Or Sami's Cornerstone.

Then radio chatter filled his ears. "Delta 8, Delta 8, this is Sentinel Bravo, come the fuck in, over!"

Christoph nearly smacked his helmet into the low hull ceiling. _Finally, Sami's men._ "Sentinel Bravo, this is Delta 8, where the hell have you guys been?"

Choppy explosions echoed through his earphones. Christoph had a sinking feeling that if he were to look through his extension, those explosions would match up with the activity in his field of view. "With all due respect, saving your men the trouble of cleaning up some armor. We destroyed four Jackals – that's Juliet Jackals – at grid zero-seven-four, eight-seven-one. That's about where we are now too. _Respectfully_ request you don't call Honeywell on that spot. We're taking shelter in one of these brickhouses."

"Don't worry Bravo, they've got another mark lined up in their sights." Christoph quickly peered outside. He estimated the distance between 30 and the designated grid at about a half kilometer.

But his subconscious picked up on something else. There were five trails of smoke, and Bravo said they'd only taken out four tanks. A sense of foreboding found its way into his stomach. "Bravo, I see evidence of _five _dead targets, what's the fifth? Over."

"Sentinel Main's a writeoff, sir. The Colonel and the gunner got out alive. 'Fraid the others weren't so lucky."

_Alive._ The word was a beacon of light in contrast to the certain bloodshed that was about to occur. The loss of one of Orange Star's most celebrated COs wouldn't do spirits any favors. Morale would be a strong factor in this war: men fighting men they'd once stood side by side with. Against Black Hole there'd been reason to hate, reason to kill. Against Green Earth there was only uncertainty and doubt.

"Thanks for the good news, Bravo. You stay put, we'll come get you when it's all over."

"With pleasure sir. Sentinel Bravo out."

Bravo's radioman departed. Christoph rolled his shoulders restlessly. He was almost itching to get into the fight, to alleviate the stress of waiting. Get it all over with. It felt good to be in an Oberon. It felt right. He didn't savor the thought of taking an infantryman's role, especially recollecting the events of two days past. No, he preferred the questionably gentle rumble, the swaying of the tank's suspension. The cooped, warm ambiance. _Well, warm is an understatement_. Sweltering was more appropriate. That was one of the downsides of being a tankman, crammed in a sixty-ton metal hull with three of your fellows, especially during the hottest month of the year.

The temptation to view his extension again presented itself, but he disregarded the lure, instead taking a long look at 30's loader. The man was following Christoph's instructions, seeking out any potential targets, but even set to the assigned task, he seemed distracted. His eyes disengaged every so often and flickered about the confined turret cabin. He chewed his lip, fidgeted in his seat. The marks of an untested newbie.

"How you doing, soldier?"

As the loader twisted his neck, Christoph got a good look at him. He wasn't that young. Maybe they were evenly matched in years. Might've gotten his toes wet in the war, too, considering he was one of Jake's men. But his uneasy behavior gave away a rookie mindset.

"Er, I'm alright, sir." His gums flexed, like he was attempting to convene spit. From the motion, Christoph guessed he wasn't succeeding.

"Been in combat before?"

His features lifted, forgetting his troubles for a moment. Perhaps trying to impress his Captain. "Yessir, I was there when we smashed the first crystal. Bigass thing. Came down easy, though."

_Hm._ So, he wasn't fresh from boot camp. "Alright, just making sure. You seem a little on edge."

Just like that the loader's brief animation passed. He shrugged and returned to his viewer, taking up his morbid duty once more. After a few seconds he said something else, but 30 bounced, and the racket of machinery covered it up.

"Say again?"

Still closely inspecting the battlefield, he repeated, "I've got a Green Earth friend. He's armor too. Met him after we brought the crystal down." A pause. He had more to say, Christoph could tell, but he needed to collect the nerve to say it.

The loader chewed on his lower lip again. "I'm just wondering if he isn't out there, looking to blow us up right now, like I am to him."

Christoph felt his mouth press tight. Hell, he didn't know what to say. He hadn't even considered something like that. He'd come to know a couple Greens over the last half year or so, but none ended up as personal friends. Without a proper response, he left the conversation dangling. There was no use in encouraging sensitivity among his crew. His head throbbed, and he allowed his thirst for caffeine to preoccupy him. Dulled thumps reverberated through the hull, ever louder, ever more powerful. Soon 30 would add to the orchestra of war.

"Alright, here comes the air support!" 30's gunner hooted.

_About time._ Christoph managed to glance into his periscope extension with not a moment to spare.

A trio of delta-winged profiles streaked white across the purple-blue sky. They moved relatively high and slow, but Christoph tracked their progress and was positive they were heading for the proper grid. As it crossed his mind, the aircraft released their munitions. Or, he figured they did, for he didn't actually see the bombs drop – the Dire Wolves made a sudden, sharp u-turn and headed south once again.

Then their deadly payloads made themselves known square in the middle of a platoon of Lynx. Yellow and orange fireballs ballooned on the downward slope, the tiny, distant vehicles engulfed in the flaming calamity. Christoph did not have to await the fire's departure; he inferred the Greens' fate. The Orange Star Dire Wolf wasn't a dedicated close air support jet, but it certainly got the job done.

Christoph broke away from the destructive spectacle. _Almost time_. Once entangled with Green Earth armor, he wouldn't be calling in more airstrikes. He set about contacting Sentinel and passing off that responsibility to their capable hands.

(())

"Yes sir, gotcha sir. Will do. Sentinel Bravo oh and oh." Bravo's radioman pushed himself from his sitting position and, keeping his head low, stepped around his comrades. The whole of the squad was lined up against the wall, crouched and weapons relaxed. Sami could tell that their muscles and minds did not follow suit, though. Each soldier was keenly sensitive of his or her surroundings. Sami watched as the designated spotter peeked out a window every minute or so, keeping an eye on the street three stories below.

The radioman knelt by Sergeant Morris and patted him on the arm. "Sergeant, that was Delta 8. He wants us to relay targets for Honeywell."

Sami absorbed the radioman's words as a third party. The Dire Wolves' first airstrike had fallen a couple hundred meters northeast, on the edge of town. She'd heard and felt it, but hadn't seen it with her own eyes. One didn't need to see the explosion to understand the power of airborne ordnance.

Morris, squatting between two broken office windows, adopted a look of irritation. "Goddamnit, that joker's gonna risk our position. Fucking hell." He ran a finger under his nose and looked about the room. Twelve soldiers all told, including Morris, Sami, and Zerangi. They were holed up on the office building's top floor, but there was little that gave away its past function: a few chairs, a couple broken desks, the bar lights overhead long burned out and busted. Most of the windows were shattered too, glass shards still littering the floor. Evidence of the Von Bolt war. Loch Haven's tiny local trade hadn't recovered yet. That'd be a long time coming.

Sami awaited Morris' decision. He was debating over which man to have call targets, she knew. He glanced over his troops, as though weighing the merits of each, determining which best fit the bill.

"I'll do it."

The sergeant fixed his gaze on the volunteer. Sami was surprised to find Morris' eyes staring into hers.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you don't even have a helmet. I can't risk your hide over some airdropped firecrackers."

_Why'd I say that? _Sami sucked her gums. She was tempted to accept his excuse, to relinquish the opportunity. She wasn't even sure what'd made her speak up. Some ungainly sense of honor? A foolhardy attempt to redeem the deaths of the Cornerstone crew? It wouldn't help. They were gone and their fates would never be reversed. But she felt like she had to do something – just sitting in an abandoned building with bombs falling all around would drive her mad. Her inner soldier and logician once again fought for control, and predictably the former won.

"I'll borrow Zerangi's. He's not using it."

Morris tilted his head, like a skeptical parent wordlessly admonishing his child. Except Sami was _his_ superior. He had no authority over her, and he knew it. His visage told her he wasn't too happy about it either.

A tank round went off somewhere nearby, filling the auditory gap.

"Up to you, ma'am, but my opinion is-"

"Your opinion is noted and ignored, Sergeant. If something happens, it's not your fault."

Morris sighed in acceptance and directed the radioman with a nod of his head. The soldier moved towards Sami but didn't bother more than a fleeting look as he passed and headed for the opposite wall. Sami adjusted her bulletproof vest and moved into a crouch. She took a couple steps to Zerangi – the gunner lay on the ground, a packaged plastic ration serving as a headrest – and knelt next to him.

"How's your head, Private?"

Zerangi's eyes shifted and flickered as he awoke from his pseudo-sleep. He had a hard time focusing on Sami. "Hrm?"

"I said, how's your head?"

His eyelids closed and opened lazily. "Oh. Doin' fine, ma'am."

He was lying. His delayed reply gave him away. Maybe it was for the best, though. Now wasn't the best time to trouble the squad with his condition. There wasn't much that could be done. "Do you hurt at all?"

Zerangi tried to lift his shoulders but failed. "Ache. Lower back, it's nothing," he mumbled.

It _could_ be nothing. It could also be an internal injury. But proper medical attention would have to wait until they returned to Fort Iams. "Private, I need to borrow your helmet. I'm on spotting duty, and I'd prefer to keep my head, if you don't mind."

But the gunner was already falling back into stupor. He only offered the slightest of nods before he became unresponsive. His still chest rose and fell, albeit lightly. Guilt harassed Sami as she unstrapped his helmet and set it on her own head. It fit clumsy over her hair, but it would do. Better than shrapnel to the brain.

She strapped the Kevlar piece firm, retrieved her rifle, and moved across the broken tiled floor to join the radioman. He sat against the far wall, weapon across his bent legs, radio at the ready. Sami got a decent look at him as she approached; even in the lightless interior, the aging morning offered sufficient illumination. His features held a trace of foreign ancestry – maybe Yellow Comet. Sami scooted up against the peeling plastered wall, so that she and the radioman flanked the same window, her on the southern side.

"Looks like we're working together. Name?"

"Zhang, ma'am."

Didn't sound like a Comet surname. "Where are you from, soldier?"

Zhang smirked, as though he got the question often enough. "Omega. My grandparents moved here from one of the islands off Cosmo Yellow Comet. Conquered during the Imperialist War."

Sami had a passing knowledge of Comet geopolitical history. She knew that war as the Off-Green conflict, a skirmish between Yellow Comet and Green Earth over the considerable Vermillion Isle. Wasn't even a war to her. His use of the term 'Imperialist War' meant he had definite heritage in the Vermillion subculture.

It also meant he harbored a special loathing for the Comets and the Greens.

"Ok. Just keep your head, and we'll do this right. One by one."

"Yes ma'am. You spot 'em, I call 'em. Easy."

Sami stared hard at Zhang for a few moments longer, just to ensure he understood her severity. The last thing she wanted right now was some hate-fueled asshat giving away their position.

Then, slowly, carefully, she craned her neck just enough to slide her field of view up and over the windowsill.

The world outside was quickly degenerating. Already there were a few structures aflame from rogue tank fire, Green Earth and Orange Star equally responsible. She watched as a couple Oberons a quarter klick east – the first of Team Kilo's armor – rolled through the suburbs and into the town's commercial center. They treaded over grass and concrete, indifferent to how shambled they left the terrain.

One of the tanks loosed a cannon round. Sami reflexively cringed. The shell transitioned invisibly and found its mark on the front end of an oncoming Lynx, the Green Earth tank having just entered the town proper. The Lynx shuddered but did not slow, instead pivoting its turret and returning fire just as easily.

Sami scanned for larger formations of enemy armor. As she did, more shapes peaked the closest northern hill. _Perfect_.

"Alright Private, you see that mount?"

Zhang risked a glimpse outside, only exposing his head as long as was necessary. "Yea. You want the flyboys on it?"

Sami nodded. "Yes, or in that general area."

Zhang fooled with the radio's settings before thumbing the transmit button. "Honeywell, Honeywell, this is Sentinel Bravo. Delta 8 has requisitioned us to call in air support targets. Acknowledge, over."

The growing din of battle did not permit Sami's listening into the reply. She could only perceive garbled, unintelligible words coming from the radio box.

Zhang depressed the button again. "Anything two grids north of zero-seven-four, eight-seven-one. Take your pick." More chatter. Zhang bobbed his head. "Roger, Sentinel Bravo over and out." He looked to Sami. "They're on their way."

She let out a breath. She hadn't even noticed that she'd been holding it. Now they just had to sit tight until combat conditions changed.

But she found herself taking another quick look outside anyway. Zhang hissed something about keeping her head down, but she disregarded his anxiety. She wanted a better tactical view of the battlefield. It was her inner soldier taking the headstrong approach again, but it couldn't be helped. It was in her blood.

A Lynx burned off to the north. It'd taken at least two lethal hits, and the scrapped carcass was unidentifiable beyond its northern position. Glimpses of motion between buildings and trees gave her an idea of where the combatants roamed. She swept the low structures, and made out the black hulk of the dead recon her Cornerstone had destroyed. The town square, ringed by small shops and the stark white town hall, still remained untouched. _Not for long. _Green tanks were closing on the position at a rapid pace-

Sami wouldn't have caught it if she hadn't been looking in the right spot at the right time. Shadows behind one of the hall's windows. Her first thought was of Green Earth infantry, but she dismissed the idea. _No way they advanced before the armor._ A trick of the light? Probably, but it paid to be absolutely sure.

More movement. _Not the light._ Someone was inside the town hall, in the middle of what was about to become the first major engagement of the war. Definitely wasn't a dog that'd been left behind, either.

She looked north along the road that led to the town square. A pair of Lynx steamed onward, treads propelling the metal behemoths at a speed comparable to any Oberon. They'd advanced far enough to remove themselves from the Dire Wolves' attack pattern. _Damn it._

Sami extended a hand to Zhang, keeping her eyes locked on the scene unfolding. "Radio."

"Huh?" Zhang's incredulous tone responded.

"Give me the radio." Her voice was low yet authoritative.

Zhang muttered something and complied, dropping the device into Sami's hand. She retracted from the window and let her rifle slide to the ground, freeing both hands to set the radio to the appropriate channel. Her thumb found the key. "Delta 8, Delta 8, this is Sentinel Bravo, come in, over."

Christoph's voice buzzed through the static, and if it weren't for the tense situation she might've been glad to hear it. "…Bravo, this is Delta 8. That you, Sami?"

The personal question aggravated her. She had damn important information to convey, and little time to convey it. "Roger, it's me. Listen – I think there are civilians in the town hall. _Do not_ under any circumstances fire upon it, you copy? Over."

The radio crackled. "The hell? Civilians? I thought they'd all been evaced."

_So did I, but that doesn't change the circumstances, damnit. _She disliked becoming so annoyed over Christoph's inexperienced inquiry, but now wasn't the most opportune time to manage feelings. "You can tell them that. Now listen – the town hall is a large, white, stone building about one hundred meters east of our position. Four stories tall. Do you copy? _White, four-story, stone building, a hundred meters east of us_."

It sounded like Christoph sighed, but the interference garbled it up. "I copy, Sentinel. We'll do our best. Delta over and out."

Sami frowned as the line went dead. She hoped his best was enough. Now they would all witness firsthand if Christoph's promotion had been the right call.

(())

"Team Kilo, I want all ears. We've got civilians on the battlefield, they didn't make it out with the rest of the evacuees. They're in the Loch Haven town hall – it's a big, white, four-story structure around grid zero-seven-four, eight-seven-two. Keep an eye on it, and do everything in your power to avoid damage. We don't want to pull bodies from the rubble. Acknowledge, over."

Recognition returned from Christoph's platoons – including those on the forefront of the fighting. _Goddamned civilians. Why the fuck hadn't they gotten out when they were supposed to?_ He endeavored to put himself in their shoes: they'd lost their home a second time. They were powerless to stop it. Their houses, their businesses, their lives, all built here and all torn down. Didn't abate his frustration, though. Just gave him a logical reason to redirect his attention.

30 was headed northwest, in range to fire, but neither the loader nor the gunner spotted any potential targets. Christoph's brow wrinkled in contemplation. The civilians had a good chance, as long as they stayed put. And with both Green and Orange tanks rolling around, he guessed they wouldn't be too enthusiastic about taking a leisurely stroll through town.

_Still… one can never be too sure…_ He narrowed the radio channel. "Platoon 30," Christoph addressed the platoon by the name of the lead tank; in this case, his. "This is Delta 8. We're changing course. Head north by northeast, towards the designated grid. We're gonna personally guarantee the civilians don't do anything stupid. Over."

The chain of command worked smoothly and all four of his subordinate sergeants reported in. Christoph monitored his electronic display, and his platoon – spread out over a roughly circular area two hundred meters in diameter – altered its collective route and obeyed his orders. 30's turret remained pivoted along their former heading.

Then the gunner's voice interjected. "Captain, lone enemy armor at five hundred meters, northwest! They're in range, we've got a flank shot."

Christoph checked his extension to confirm the gunner's findings. Sure enough, his IFF did not respond to the marked target, and the Lynx seemed oblivious to their presence. It was alone, no supporting tanks visible, and concentrated on some unseen objective.

Well, if Platoon 30 wasn't in imminent danger, Christoph would make absolutely sure that they killed the target in one blow. He picked one of his tanks to assist and imparted his command. "26, we've got armor a half klick northwest. Line him up in your sights, and await my word." Rough numbers danced in his head. Two HEAT rounds would almost certainly destroy the Lynx, especially if directed at the weaker side armor.

26 confirmed. Christoph stole a quick look to his left. 30's loader sat poised, ready to rearm the 120 mm cannon once the first round was expended. Then he ensured the line to 26 was still open. _Good. No reason to delay._

The order was simple and went to both his gunner and 26's counterpart.

"FIRE!"

The gun's report blasted through his earphones, and the shock rippled through his very core. A secondary discharge, only a pop stifled by his ringing ears and the thick hull wall, signaled 26's follow-up sabot.

As soon as the feeder mechanism reset, the loader went through the proper motions, sliding another round from the ammo rack and reloading the gun. Christoph quickly checked his extension. 30 cleared the artificial smoke cloud effortlessly, traversing the shallowly hilled terrain at speed. The Lynx was gone, its messy death delivered by 30's platoon. He tensed in expectation of returning fire, but none came. _Easy enough_. The Green Earth tank had indeed been alone. A foolish move on the crew's part. Or they were just unlucky.

There were no other Greens in sight. The five Oberons rumbled on, free from harassment and the burden of engaging targets. Christoph watched attentively for any structure matching Sami's description. The very top of a lighter building rose over the next grassy mound, in contrast with Loch Haven's predominantly brick edifices. Then the tip of a flagpole. The orange fabric of the flag itself, the golden star. He resisted the urge to physically rise from his seat in an impulsive attempt to obtain a better view.

"Delta 8, this is Sentinel," Sami invaded his earpieces, breaking his concentration. "I see a platoon of Orange Star armor coming up from the south. Do they know about the civilians? "

_No, we just decided to waltz around and see the sights_, he mused cynically. "That's my group, Sentinel. We're moving to defend. Designation-" he stopped, conjuring a callsign for the town hall, "Uh, designation for the civilians will be Boxcar. Copy, over."

"Roger, Boxcar it is. We're still – _holy –!_"

The radio signal disintegrated for a split second. _What the hell? _Christoph swung his extension, bringing it to bear on Sami's presumed position, but he stopped halfway there.

Two Lynx, engines at maximum, entered the town square. Rather, they attempted to. Christoph didn't hear the explosion from his tank; there were still two football fields' length between 30 and the southern edge of the square. But the visual proof of one Lynx's demise was enough. Discolored flames leaped in all directions, protruding from the vehicle's underbelly. One of the treads ripped off and the fragmented strips spiraled across the ground. Christoph caught sight of the vehicle settling, as though the sixty ton mass had been _thrown_ into the air. Its forward momentum was rapidly spent and the burning Lynx stuttered to an unceremonious halt, with nothing close to elegance. It quivered in a last attempt to drag itself onward, but to no avail.

"Sentinel, come in, over!" White noise, no response._ "Sami, come in! What the fuck was that?_"

Christoph feared that whatever destroyed the Lynx had caused collateral damage and hit Sentinel's position. Plainly, though, that wasn't the case, for Sami answered loud enough to take him aback. "Shit, that wasn't one of your tanks, was it?"

"No! Didn't look anything like a HEAT round! Thought it was your Spearhead!"

She cursed. "Look at the flames. They're coming from the tank's belly. Someone set up mines on the road."

_Who the hell would do that? Command hadn't authorized the deployment of mines._ "Think it was the Greens?"

"No, why the hell would they hit their own tank- _oh no_."

Sami's reaction didn't bode well. Christoph had no idea how the Lynx had come to be destroyed, and less time to think about it. It was just another obstacle removed. He figured he had a precious dozen seconds before he would be forced to open fire on the remaining Green – and the stragglers coming down the northern road. But Christoph definitely had reservations about entering a _mined combat zone_. He swabbed his forehead with his damp sleeve and took one last good look across the square, and the town hall. The second Lynx treaded not ten feet from the white structure, its turret sweeping the surroundings, as though searching for the first tank's slayer in pursuit of retribution.

Even as he watched, a small, almost unnoticeable glinting speck arced from the sky and onto the Lynx's flat top. A single stone or loose tile from the hall's roof perhaps, shaken and encouraged by the heavy machine's rumbling.

But the piece did not simply splinter upon the metal. As it impacted, flames burst forth in a sheet of fire and engulfed the machine in orange and sickly greens. The living conflagration rolled over the tank's metal hide in a hellish mockery of flowing water. But the Lynx continued to advance, unable or unwilling to arrest its progress, now a horrifying platform of burning death.

Christoph felt his mouth fall open, awestruck by the enemy armor that was now a mobile inferno. _Dear God in heaven. What the hell is going on?_ Somehow, though, he gathered his wits. Now wasn't the time to worry about why and how. Now was the time to take advantage of the situation.

His mouth struggled to find the correct words, still half-paralyzed from the shock of this unexpected turn of events. "Gunner, bead on the burning tank!"

The gunner's response was shaky. "Uh, yessir!" Christoph didn't have to be a psychologist to understand that the crew's confidence was undermined. No longer did they exhibit their jesting attitude, ready to rush headlong into battle. No one knew what the fuck was happening, least of all them. The only lingering fact in the swiftly deteriorating world outside was that _something_ had annihilated one enemy and incapacitated another. _Friendly fire? Airstrike?_ Nothing fit the bill.

Once again Sami was on the radio, and Christoph was only too happy to seize on any veneer of stability. "Christoph, it's Boxcar. They're throwing gasoline cocktails from the upper floors of the town hall. _I repeat, the civilians are responsible! Stay clear of that structure!_"

_The civilians?_ "You sure, Sentinel?"

"I'm _dead_ sure. I just watched one lean out the window and drop a bottle on that tank. It's them. The Greens probably saw it too, and they'll be gunning to take out the hall now. Your job just got a whole lot more difficult."

_Fucking hell!_ This complicated things. It made the town hall a much harder target to protect. He strove for a resolution to his mounting problems. He had to save the townspeople, even if they were doing the stupidest thing imaginable – infuriating the Green Earth forces.

But he only found one plan. One option. It wasn't safe, and it wasn't sane. But neither was war. _No preparation ever survives contact with the enemy…_

"Platoon 30, we are good to engage. Move into the square, we have to prevent the Greens from gaining a foothold. Push the incoming platoon back, and be prepared to hold the area against additional assaults. By any means necessary."

(())

If offered the chance, Sami would've unquestionably given the civilians at _least_ a piece of her mind, if not a boot to their collective asses. _Fools_. Trying to stand up for their small town against a military power with nothing but IEDs and gas cocktails. The demolition of the first Lynx was pure luck. It'd traveled over just the right spot, and taken the hidden explosive precisely in the center of its undercarriage. The second tank wasn't dead by any means, but she had no doubt its optics were completely fouled up. Not to mention it probably hadn't been NBC secured, and the burning petroleum would find its way through cracks and seals.

A flight of Dire Wolves screamed overhead, depositing yet another barrage on the cratered northern hill in a series of catastrophic detonations. Sami instinctively withdrew her head from the window. _It's a wonder we all don't go deaf_. She widened her mouth in an effort to forcibly pop her ears. Then she turned to Zhang. The radioman had more or less remained in the same spot. He did his best to keep his cool, and Sami was obliged to extend him a measure of respect for that.

"Zhang, we're going to have Honeywell change targets. The Greens'll get wise and avoid that hill. Tell them to start running farther west. We haven't seen evidence of Green Earth air power yet."

"Gotcha." He fumbled for his radio and proceeded to establish contact with Dorton Air Force Base.

Despite the escalating conflict, Sami refused to hide within the office building's interior. She stubbornly returned to watching the square, following Christoph's armor platoon as it fanned out and entered the town center.

From what she could gather over the hundred meter distance, either there were no additional IEDs, or the civilians had done a spectacular job of hiding them. She still made out a figure or two filtering about inside the hall. They clearly had no intention of leaving, or ceasing their would-be defense of Loch Haven.

"Jeez, wouldya look at that!"

Sami spun around. Bravo's infantrymen, still lined up against the far wall, peered out the western windows, each one tracking an invisible target.

The sound accompanying the squad's absorption was reminiscent of a hyper-powered buzz saw, but amplified a hundredfold. For a deafening four-second stretch, it shrieked through the air, obliterating even the noise of Sami's breathing, before abruptly cutting off, allowing the clamor of battle to once again dominate.

She knew that sound, and her stomach twisted in response. It was the 30 mm rotary cannon that defined Green Earth's Lightning ground-attack aircraft. The Lightning's presence undoubtedly meant more than a few Oberons had suddenly met their untimely ends. The GEAF Lightning was arguably the most potent close air support jet in the world.

"Holy fuck, it's like the devil's cross!"

The offending aircraft, relatively silent and low-flying, came into view on Sami's side of the building as it circled overhead. The soldier's description was hardly baseless. The Lightning was an ugly beast: straight wings, bubble canopy, and a pair of rear-mounted, fat barrel engines. But looks didn't matter when warfare was concerned. It certainly got the job done, and unfortunately that job was killing Orange Star armor.

Now Sami had the foresight to back away from her shattered window as the aircraft made another pass in the eastern skies over the town square. The Lightning's nose-mounted gun again screeched fire and metal death, solidifying a conditioned response of fear in Sami's heart. Huge fountains of dirt raced one another at an impossible speed until they struck another Oberon. The first handful of rounds sparked on the tank's armor, but the rotary cannon's power would not be denied. The Oberon shook visibly until the onslaught penetrated its hull – maybe the ammunition cache – and the tank disappeared in a roaring fireball.

"Holy shit," she muttered under her breath.

Zhang agreed. "_Holy shit_ is right. Greens always had the best air force, and Eagle to back it up."

The name metaphorically struck her in her gut. She wasn't just facing Eagle's ground troops, but his air support as well. She'd acknowledged this before the battle, but she'd managed to suppress the knowledge. Until now.

_No. Never doubt. Keep fighting. The priority is saving the civilians._ Even focused on that duty, though, Sami wasn't sure that Christoph's lone platoon, now only numbering four, could handle it. And she knew he couldn't risk pulling another five Oberons from the forefront of the fighting. Another pass by the Lightning wouldn't help things either.

"Zhang, I want Honeywell to get their Hawkeyes up, or at least outfit the next flight of Dire Wolves with air-to-air missiles. We can't keep taking punishment from that buzzard. Especially if he calls friends."

Again Zhang obeyed, focusing on his equipment. Additional air support would help, but still Sami held her reservations about Team Kilo's ability to defend the hall. More Lynx and Jackals were bound to advance on the relatively unprotected flank of the Orange Star forces. No, they'd need some more punch.

She caught Zhang as he finished his latest conversation with Honeywell. "Sorry to circumvent your position, Private, but I need your radio again."

(())

"FIRE!"

30's cannon recoiled and Christoph was positive he'd lost all hearing in his left ear. The cabin air was nigh impermeable, choked with firing residue. But they couldn't let up. They could never let up. The Greens advanced steadily and urgently, responding to his platoon's salvos with bombardments of their own.

That fucking jet had taken out one of his tanks in a most vicious fashion. Looked like the devil's own crossed-T, too. He'd never seen that particular aircraft in action but it was unquestionably powerful. He could do nothing but wait for Honeywell to cover them, though.

"Target's still moving!" the gunner reported.

"SABOT, LET'S GO, LET'S GO-" Christoph nearly devolved into a fit of coughing, but he retained his composure and blinked away welling, irritated tears.

The loader dexterously fitted another metal cylinder into the barrel and shut it closed. "Up!"

"FIRE!"

Blast. Recoil. Smoke. The cycle of destruction continued. Christoph hoped the target was dead; this was the second round they'd pumped into it.

"Not a kill, we're hitting the Lynx's front armor! Heads up-!"

A reverberating metallic _kung_ rattled 30 and all inside, much like a gong or heavy church bell. Christoph exerted sheer willpower to retain his sense of direction as the shock subsided. The Lynx's cannon angle had been off, and the returning shot deflected by the Oberon's thick sloped plating. Christoph steadied himself via the hull wall.

"Another sabot!"

The loader fought to assemble his wits. His reloading time was noticeably slower. Or, would've been noticeably slower if Christoph's skull wasn't drumming in rebellion. Eventually, though, the man pulled himself together and secured a third shell in the gun.

"Gunner, fire when ready!"

"On the waaaaay!"

Blast. Recoil. Smoke. If it wasn't a matter of life and death, Christoph would've found the routine monotonous. _Goddamnit, die already!_

"Lynx is gone, sir! Shot to the turret base."

_Finally_. He didn't bother to check the gunner's facts, but used the viewer to examine the environment.

30 rumbled for the western side of the town square. 26 and 28 took the center. The remaining Oberon, 29, rounded the far side of the hall, endeavoring to outflank the incoming Greens. The enemy platoon had been crippled but not destroyed; two Lynx still exchanged fire with Christoph's men.

28 took simultaneous rounds from both of them. The first did not penetrate, but 28 couldn't head both with its thick frontal armor – it took the second shell to its right tread, bringing the metal beast to a grinding standstill.

Christoph already had the radio set properly. "26! Cover 28, they're immobile!"

Crackle. "Yessir, on it!"

But before 26 could carry out Christoph's directive, white hot light blazed from somewhere beyond the town hall, crashing into the farthest Lynx. A second flaring brightness traced the path of the first, emulating its predecessor, but with greater success. At almost the same time, 26 let death loose upon its partner. The first Lynx joined their scrapped brothers in hell a mere brace of heartbeats after Christoph's order. The second took 26's cannon fire and strove to avoid its demise from the unforeseen lances of fire. 28's swift salvation caught Christoph completely off guard, and it was only a surprising radio message that yanked him back into reality.

"Delta 8, this is Sentinel-2. Lieutenant Colonel Sami sends her regards, and we're getting the fuck outta here to reload. Over."

Christoph's lips moved fruitlessly. _Sentinel 2. The other Cornerstone. _He'd completely forgotten about it, and it'd shown up at the best possible time, dual TOW missiles and all. "I, ah… sounds good, Sentinel-2. The tankers owe you one!"

The IFV's commander laughed. "Just kick some Green ass for us. Sentinel-2 out."

The Cornerstone departed, freeing Christoph to examine the final Lynx. The pine-colored machine moved closer to the hall, desperately trying to avoid its counterpart's fate. _Too close._ Christoph angled the viewer, visually patrolling the hall's upper windows. Sure enough, he spotted one of the panes swing outward. Someone stood in the open window, an object the size and shape of a glass bottle in his hand, burning rag stuffed into the container's neck.

Christoph couldn't distinguish the finer details, but his white, buttoned attire marked him as non-military, and the way he leaned out the window gave away his intent.

"_Don't do it_," he muttered futilely. But the civilian's mind was already made up. He anchored himself on the windowsill, drew his arm back, and tossed the improvised weapon at his target three stories down.

His throw was less accurate than the first, but it landed with the same devastating consequences. The rear of the Lynx's turret and body were swallowed by fire. The flaming liquid achieved its purpose, but right now Christoph's only desire was to fling countless obscenities at the civilians. In the long run they would only bring the Green's vengeance upon themselves. Once the Green Earth forces understood _how _three of their main battle tanks had been incapacitated, they wouldn't hesitate to bring the hall down.

But he couldn't give up. His platoon, now three functional Oberons, was the only thing standing between Boxcar and death. Christoph's decision was solidified, with or without his consent, by the approach of another group of Lynx.

He had a few moments, though, and as Team Kilo's commander he had a duty to fulfill. He swapped the radio to the company-wide channel.

"Team Kilo, this is Delta 8. Sitrep, over."

Crashing and gunfire flowed into his headset from at least four different platoons. One got the jump and spoke first, presumably a lieutenant. "Delta 8, Platoon 10 here. We're up to our necks in Greens. They're pushing hard but they don't quite have the numbers to back it up. We're holding…" _Boom_. 10's cannon, Christoph reassured himself. Still, the moment of radio silence unnerved him, and he was all too glad to hear the voice again. "…from enemy airpower yet, Honeywell's got Hawkeyes covering us."

Nothing catastrophic. Good. "Ok 10. Keep at it. Sentinel's free for airstrikes, we're too close to call 'em. If you get a chance send a couple friendlies our way. Delta 8 over and out."

That was that. He couldn't have possibly wished for anything more hopeful than a neutral report. Green Earth strength was about as accurate as Intel's findings. Still, it meant Platoon 30 was on its own. He'd have to make do. Four tanks left, one out of action.

_Work with me here._

Even he wasn't quite sure where that last thought was directed.

(())

The view from ground level gave a new meaning to the term _armored combat_; the thundering of heavy ordnance was earpounding. This wasn't the infantry's favored setting, even if the battlefield was suburban. Especially so when the majority of the enemy force consisted of medium tanks. The Orange Star infantryman's primary anti-tank weapon, the Spearhead, had trouble dealing with heavier armor. Sure, it could take out a Jackal or recon truck easily enough, but Lynx were a different class of foe altogether. To be effective, one had to strike the same target several times, or hit a weak spot. Most notably, the rear.

Even so, Sami hefted her weighty Spearhead over one shoulder. The bulky metal rest was obviously never designed to proffer the bearer anything like comfort. It settled painfully onto her bones.

She glanced over her free shoulder out of vigilant caution. The office building's first floor was sparsely accommodated, just as the third, but with the absence of Bravo squad. Only Zhang and a rifleman accompanied her.

"Sure you don't want me to do this, Colonel?" Zhang asked.

She found his face over the Spearhead's smooth, curved barrel. "What, you don't think a woman can fight as well as any of you grunts?" Her quip was supposed to play on Vermillion culture's relative conservatism regarding women's societal roles. The ploy worked. Zhang responded with a dumbfounded expression. His jaw stuttered and it was clear he was mentally scrambling for an apology.

Sami just grinned. "Only kidding, Private." _Humor. The best remedy for fear_. Her medicine appeared to influence Zhang's mood, and he relaxed with a breathy chuckle.

"Goddamn, Colonel. Don't scare me like that. You know how terrifying it is to think you just accidentally mouthed off to a superior officer."

She retained a smirk as she turned to the Spearhead's electronic screen. The weapon was focused on the corner of a small shop, waiting for the next Green Earth assault to round its edge. _A hidden predator, lying in ambush._ That's what she was. Christoph's platoon needed every advantage it could get, and Sami planned to utilize surprise to its fullest extent.

"There they are," she murmured. The thermal's green shades morphed as the magnified view of the enemy armor rolled onto the screen. Five more Lynx. No Jackals. They wouldn't have an easy time with it. The want of light tanks meant that she would have to wait until the Lynx showed their backsides. It would be, quite literally, their only shot.

Rumbles and booms signaled the beginning of the latest engagement – five Green Earth Lynx versus four Orange Star Oberons, one of which was immobile, a sitting duck.

As soon as combat was joined, the latter tank was explosively finished off with the first few trades of firepower. _Damn. Three left._

Christoph's troop wouldn't last long, outnumbered as they were and handicapped by the town hall's defense. But Sami restrained her compulsion to fire. She needed the right moment, the right opportunity, and the Greens weren't giving it to her. They advanced headlong, confident in their ability to break the Orange Star forces. Or desperate. Sami had no idea how the main battle was going, off to the west.

Now she had a flank shot. Again the temptation to pull the trigger was evident, but again she resisted. _Come on, come on. Give me something to work with…_

One of the three Oberons took a ricocheting hit to its turret, whipping off several instruments. Such a fate was almost as bad as losing engine power. _Christoph's tank?_ There was no telling.

The group of Lynx rolled onward. Then one abruptly executed a sharp turn to the east, making for the far buildings. Perhaps trying to circumvent the Oberons' steadfast resistance. It had the added benefit of exposing its weak stern plating to Sami.

_Perfect_.

"Steady," she ordered. Zhang stabilized the Spearhead device with both hands, granting Sami the motionless instant she needed. She ensured the thermal was sighted properly one last time. Then she compressed the trigger.

The missile's initial launch was nothing more than the _pop_ of propellant bolts detonating, brusquely throwing the projectile several yards out the window. Then the rocket itself ignited and a wave of exhaust heat billowed over Sami, forcing her to turn her face away from the backlash. She found her breath and looked again in time to watch the anti-tank weapon streak across the square and collide with the doomed Lynx.

But now she hardly cared about the outcome. If anyone noticed the missile's launch, a counterstrike would inevitably find its way to their position. Zhang helped her to her feet, and the group of three quickly retreated from the window, Sami still carrying the empty launch module. It only weighed fifteen pounds, a relieving change of pace from the loaded weight of forty.

They found refuge several offices down. The room gave them a rear view of the four tanks, and the next possible firing position was _outside_ of the building itself. It was an idea spot, but unlike the majority of the buildings, the dominant window was still intact. Well, there was one way to fix that.

Sami peered through the glass, looking left and right. She took the Spearhead module in both hands, drew it back, and smashed it into the pane. It shattered with the blow, raining a hundred jagged pieces on both the office's torn up carpet and the sidewalk outside.

"Fuck!" The rifleman jumped back, avoiding the rain of glass shards. "Wish you'd said something before you'd done that, Colonel."

"Sorry." The apology was half-sincere. She'd come away with nary a scratch, thanks to a good helping of fortune. Didn't really matter how. She beckoned Zhang over and sat down, once again setting the Spearhead on her shoulder.

Zhang removed his specialized pack, zipped it opened, and carefully extracted the second missile from the padded interior. It was about the length of a fire extinguisher but half as thick - their last missile, and Sami aimed to make it count.

With all the tenderness and care that one might give a newborn, Zhang fixed the propellant end into the Spearhead's loading tube. It wouldn't go off if he accidentally fumbled it, but each missile ran the Orange Star military the equivalent of two extremely expensive cars, so mistakes were costly. His tongue hung partway from his mouth, his forehead glistened. The radioman wasn't used to the anti-tank role, but he'd accompanied Sami anyway. She appreciated it greatly. Even if she'd only become informally acquainted with the man in the middle of combat, having an ally she knew by name bolstered her confidence.

The rocketed warhead smoothly slid in, and the extra load crushed Sami's shoulder, but she only grunted. The thermal screen showed the four Lynx as angular green splashes. To her they were targets, each one potentially home to four dead men. She picked out one at random. There wasn't time to calculate which one presented the most tactically important shot.

"Steady," she intoned. Zhang supported her once again and ducked his head. The rifleman pressed himself against the wall, clear of the backlash. For the second time in as many minutes, Sami pulled the weapon's trigger.

The bolts popped again and she screwed her eyes shut. The missile catapulted a few feet before it roared to life and into a gradual incline. The ascension was short-lived, though, and soon it began a brief, rocket-assisted descent – right into another Lynx. The tank jolted as its back end was lifted from the ground, and the machine crashed back to earth with a teeth-gnashing tearing of metal. Second target dead.

"That's all, let's get the hell out." Zhang and the rifleman were ecstatic to remove themselves from the vulnerable firesite. Zhang retrieved his pack and took the Spearhead too. Sami gladly gave it up. The whole ordeal was starting to fatigue her. She felt like she needed a good solid twelve hours of sleep. Eventually she would get it. She hoped.

Christoph was on his own now. Her resources were spent. Three on three. With luck she'd evened the odds. Luck, though, was a fickle thing. _Never rely on it_, she reminded herself._ The enemy has an equal claim to its forces._

(())

Christoph wasn't entirely positive about how the platoon of five Lynx had become three, but he wasn't complaining. _Beggars can't be choosers._ 28 was a smoldering wreck. The crew really didn't have a chance to escape – they would've been just as dead out in the open, cut up by shrapnel. _Poor bastards_. The idea of awarding them posthumous medals flashed in his head at the most improper time.

29 had taken partial tread damage, but it rumbled along, using the square's construction – quickly turning into broken ruins – as cover. Only 26 and 30 remained unharmed. They still had a shot at rebuking the assault, but in the back of his mind Christoph knew that any additional Green Earth combatants would tip the scales against them.

30's radio scratched and growled. The delivered message was interspersed with the sound of warfare and tank fire. "Delta 8, this is Platoon 10. We believe the enemy force is breaking off. Repeat, _the main body of the Greens is retreating_. They've sustained heavy losses, and some of their rear platoons are turning 'round and heading home. Shall we pursue?"

If the news hadn't been so groundbreaking, Christoph wouldn't have given it a second thought, broiled in his own combat as he was. But this was different. The Green Earth force was fleeing? They'd won? _Oh, thank fucking God!_

"Negative, 10! Negative! Consolidate your position and _for God's sake, send help our way_. We're still engaged with three Lima Lynx. _Move your ass!_"

"Yessir, we've got a unit within a couple minutes' distance. Hold on!"

Christoph didn't bother asking what type of unit it was. Anything was welcome at this point. He looked outside. The extension revealed one of the Lynx bringing its gun to bear on 29. The friendly Oberon was in no position to preemptively defend itself – but 30 was.

"Gunner, retarget! My Lynx, before it takes out 29!"

"Working on it!"

The hydraulics sluggishly rearranged 30's firing pattern. Too slow. Painfully slow. 29 didn't have much time.

"Almost got it-!"

30's cannon burst yellow and gray. The tank was traveling in the right direction for Christoph to fully watch the proceedings. In the nick of time, the shell slammed into the Lynx. It did not cause lethal damage, but that wasn't Christoph's goal. He only wanted to jar it enough to throw off its aim. His plan had the desired effect: the enemy's subsequent round went wide from its mark and dug a new crater into the hillside beyond.

Still a relative stalemate, though. Lynx and Oberon were top-notch vehicles, maybe the best of their kind in the world, and both could take the heat to back up that claim. With only three on each side, the firefight was turning into a drawn-out, mind-numbing, armored slugfest.

One of the Lynx made a sudden turn and began to move south. Directly into the roughly- defined Orange Star lines. _What the hell is he doing?_

Then, just as unexpectedly, its treads slowed. The lumbering machine couldn't possibly stop on a dime, but it came close. _What's going on?_ Had it lost power? Run out of fuel?

Tediously, the Lynx 'geared' into reverse. The turret continued to rotate, though, which still made it a deadly enemy. But a maneuver like that was only indicative of one thing. Retreat.

Christoph nearly strained his throat in his excitement, "Platoon 30, they're withdrawing! Take the opportunity and hammer 'em! Go, go, go!"

With only two other Oberons left, Christoph really didn't give a shit that almost every member of his surviving crews responded. He just wanted to run the Green bastards out of Loch Haven, and to finally extract the civilians from the town hall.

"Fire at will! I want them outta here, and we're gonna encourage them!"

30 pursued. Its driver rounded man-made craters in the ruined square and charged for the north side. The gunner took Christoph's orders to heart and fired as fast as the loader could provide. Christoph only observed, mesmerized. _They're really retreating. We've won. We've won the first real battle in the war._

26 came in over the radio. "Sir, watch your ass! That aircraft is coming around again!"

_Shit_. All thoughts of their imminent victory subsided in favor of survival. If the Lightning was truly incoming, then his armor would have to get out of the open.

"Driver, hard left! Shelter behind those buildings, we've got enemy airpower on the way!"

There was no need for a verbal confirmation. Invoking Green Earth tankbusters was enough to coax the driver into action. 30 swung harshly, crushing Christoph into the right-hand wall. He clutched at his extension and strained to see through it, maybe to catch a glimpse of the flying fiend.

Instead, his world became chaos.

Tortured metal screamed through the hull. 30's cabin turned into a blur of gray and white. Christoph felt like his head was a hollow metal bowl crammed with pinging marbles. He was on the cabin floor, a boot in his face, heel kicking at his helmet. A strange hissing sound overcame even the crash of battle outside. He couldn't place the noise, but it was oddly familiar. Then all went white.

_Halon gas._ The emergency fire suppression system. Its activation filled the tank with extinguishing fumes. _Fire. Gotta get out._ Instinct took over. He tried to move but the boot on his head impeded his progress, thrashing wildly and clipping Christoph in the jaw. Copper filled his mouth and wet sputtered from his lips. He grabbed the appendage and hurled it away, trying to get his feet under him.

The loader's footwear was responsible. He too scrambled to stand. Christoph grabbed his fatigues and pulled him up. _Evacuate!_ He wanted to scream the word but the gas wasn't abiding by his wishes. The fringes of panic clawed and chewed in his gut. Christoph scraped his helmet against a dozen surfaces as he mauled his way to the commander's hatch in the quickly thickening air. He jammed the handle and threw the metal disk open.

As he pulled himself from 30's turret, the loader's hatch burst outward and its occupant emerged, a mist followed. _Alive, good._ Christoph frantically shuffled to the turret's front edge. The driver's hatch was already open, and empty. He'd escaped. One less thing to worry over.

Christoph's adrenaline surged and he leapt from the Oberon, nearly twisting his knee on landing. Distance. He needed distance between him and his tank. He spotted a chunk of broken masonry eight yards off, and staggered over, half collapsing beside its considerable bulk. For some time he only lay there, wheezing on the clean air, before forcibly dragging himself upright and leaning against the block.

His face was wet and he tasted metal. He wiped at his lips. His sleeve returned rose. One of his teeth felt loose. But he was alive. After all he'd been through in the few days since the war's beginning, he was still alive. _Still alive._ Say one thing for Christoph Jorn, say he's a survivor. Or one lucky bastard.

He looked up from his bloodied sleeve. 30 was decorated with several deep dents, as though a giant had taken a sledgehammer to the tank's skin. An enormous gouge divided the backside in an uneven diagonal line. Flames licked the unnatural hollow, fading in the leaking halon mist.

It was a dead machine. An allegorical heartstring twanged within Christoph's chest. Ached, in fact. _His_ machine, gone, so brutally and efficiently. That damn Green Earth jet. Fucking thing was a powerhouse. He felt a little guilty experiencing such feelings over the loss of a tank, and less so over the doubtless deaths of his men, but it couldn't be helped. The Oberon had served him faithfully in the short time he'd used it.

Someone tripped over his extended leg. Limbs flailed. Christoph was hardly startled by the event. He followed the man as he stumbled and fell into the dirt. 30's loader. Well, ex-loader. Christoph groaned, leaned forward, and helped him up by the back of his uniform.

The loader took an exhausted seat next to him, winded from exertion. He glanced sideways at 30, then to Christoph with an apologetic look in his eye. "Sorry Captain," he panted. "Fuckin' Greens, eh?"

Christoph only dipped his head. "Yea. Fucking Greens." But it was over. Those _fucking Greens_ were gone. Beaten. And he'd done it. Captain Christoph Jorn of the OSA, defeating a complement of Lieutenant General Eagle's forces. Even in the likely event that Eagle himself had not personally commanded the enemy company, Christoph allowed something close to pride swell within him. Anything to distract him from the pain in his mouth, and the vulnerable position he and his loader were in. Wouldn't do to dwell on the idea of the Lightning making another flyby and ripping them to veritable pieces.

"Oh, fuck."

Christoph groaned. He wasn't up for bad news. He only tilted his neck forward. "What-?"

The loader needed not answer, though. Christoph saw it. The town hall. Half of it simply _didn't exist_, destroyed to rubble. White chunks of stone and brick massed at the ruined base in a disorganized jumble of demolished stonework. The other half – the standing half – had not fared much better. The exposed innards were a mess of artificial bowels and granite viscera. Obliterated. Nothing moved, save an occasional brick fragment falling to the torn, bleeding earth. No signs of life.

_No. No, no, no, no…_

Christoph clambered onto shaky legs. He unclipped his helmet from his head, a silly endeavor to reveal a larger picture, one that countered the impossible, false image he perceived. The gearpiece fell to the dirt. Christoph swayed weakly. The wreckage was absolute. _No_. Not after all they'd done. All the sacrifice they'd made to protect those civilians. The men who'd died in their defense. Good men, at least eight tankers and possibly more. Might've been saved if Christoph's platoon engaged with the main force and broken the enemy earlier.

All for naught. Because of one _fucking_ aircraft. One. A flying metal wing that turned everything on its head.

Christoph frantically sought justification, but it eluded him. God wasn't keen on providing any either.


	10. A Fine Day for War

Nell allowed herself a moment's rest as she gazed through her office window, looking over Orange Star's prominent capital. The weather was remarkable. The sun beamed down favorably upon Serlin, formalizing a stereotypical late August day. White clouds ambled across the blue sky at a leisurely pace, casting shadowed patterns on the city's jigsaw of steel and glass skyscrapers. Below lay a beautifully designed garden park, Serlin Central. Pristinely cut rows of immaculate grass stretched for almost a quarter of a mile, interspersed with bright stone walkways. Nell noted that the paths imitated marble quite well from her office's height. Forecasts promised a continuation of the wonderful conditions for at least several days more, and for this she was grateful. Foul weather would only serve to bring about just as foul a mood.

The whole visual experience, a lovingly crafted union of man and nature, was transformed into a surreal work of art with the mere addition of remote cannon fire.

Nell breathed deeply. While the idea of ignoring the interruption and salvaging the moment of peace appealed to her, she had precious little time to spare. She returned her eyes her oversized redwood desk. It was home to a powerful desktop computer, a set of carved document vessels, several stacks of neatly piled folders, and a multifaceted telephone. However, there was only one item that concerned her at that very moment: a stapled battle report, set neatly in the desk's center. It patiently awaited her attention, but her shilly-shallying had led to a fleeting admiration of the city's climate. This was the report she both anticipated and dreaded. Not because of its contents, but because of what it signified. The numbers and text within would only provide details to what she already knew: Orange Star forces had scored their first fundamental victory over Green Earth in Omega Land. She was already aware of this success.

No, the most important fact the ten sheets of paper imparted was that _this was the line_. There would be no going back. No recanting. No negotiations. Orange Star took Green Earth's demands and threw them in the garbage. And then socked the Greens in the jaw.

It was a foolish fear, more foolish than hesitating in the face of the unknown, for Nell fully recognized this obstacle. Before there had been some glimmer of hope that the war with Green Earth could be staved off with talk and politics. Now that hope had vanished behind the persuasive voice of the armed forces. The far-off pounding of naval guns, so close to Serlin, underlined reality. Total war was inevitable.

Perhaps this reflection crumpled any final barriers of irrationality within Nell's psyche. She wasn't quite sure. As Orange Star's Commander-in-Chief, she liked to believe that she was a perfectly rational being. Even if she did not always accept such a concept, it was important that her subordinates felt she only acted in the very best interests of the nation. But still, Nell was only human. Just like everyone else.

A human with considerable will, though. The whole internal debate probably consumed less time than it took to pour a glass of milk or start a car. Nell retrieved the bound papers and flipped through them casually. _Facts and figures. All vital._

The combatants, it seemed, had been evenly matched. Orange Star's forces consisted of one armored company, one mechanized infantry platoon, and sporadic air support. Thirty Oberons, five Surefields, and five Neotanks. Two squads of infantry, two IFVs. A wing of Dire Wolves and a wing of Hawkeyes.

Green Earth's ground troops had been more numerous, but their supporting airbase several dozen miles distant. Twelve or so Jackals, and a full company of forty Lynx. No infantry. Two Lightning ground-attack aircraft. No relevant air superiority fighters.

Orange Star losses totaled three Surefields and seventeen Oberons, along with one Cornerstone. Green Earth losses were subject to inflated kill reports, but the analysts estimated five Jackals, a score of Lynx, and one Lightning.

An Orange Star victory, with the caveat of heavy casualties. Sixty-three confirmed dead.

No prisoners taken.

Nell ran through the list of officers. Her sister played her usual part as the overarching commander. Sami directed the mechanized infantry. The armor captain, though, was a name she didn't recognize. Odd; Jake was assigned as Fort Iams' primary tank officer. A notation at the bottom, however, explained that Jake had suffered minor injuries and was unable to lead. _Hm_. As long as he was relatively unharmed and very much alive, Nell was satisfied with the results. Orange Star's troops successfully utilized combined arms tactics and defeated a numerically superior foe. She expected no less of her protégés.

She flipped through the remaining pages, somewhat disinterested with the finer points. She would sort them out later. As she set the finalized report down, she stood from her executive's chair. A knock sounded on her office door.

"Come in."

The door opened. Nell looked to the newcomer and recognized her as the familiar corporal. She smiled cordially. "Good afternoon, Corporal. How are you today?"

A faint smile returned. Nell wished to maintain a friendly yet formal atmosphere in her working environment, and if the corporal's reaction to her greeting was evidence, then she was succeeding. "I'm fine Commander, thank you for asking. I would pose the same question in return, but…"

"Oh, I know," Nell accepted as she shook her head. "Life is never sprightly when one is the Commander-in-Chief of a nation at war." She looked over her shoulder briefly, in search of her violet cap. _Ah, on the windowsill_. She moved to retrieve it. "What brings you here?"

The woman stepped into the room, keeping one foot in the door. She probably had somewhere to be. "Commander Andy sent me. You couldn't be located, and he feels it is unsafe to remain on headquarters' upper levels, with the Green Earth navy so close."

Andy. A well-meaning young man, and he was correct in this case. Protocol dictated that Orange Star's chief officers remove themselves from vulnerable quarters in times of war, out of precaution. Nell was very much familiar with that particular code, but she had a few items to clean up and paperwork to gather. She hadn't intended to stay as long as she did, though. For her, the office was homely. Cozy, even. A place of refuge in troubled times.

"I was just leaving, actually. But I appreciate his concern." Nell collected the report and tucked it away in her briefcase, and then rounded the desk. The corporal politely held the door for her, but Nell stopped mid-pace. She took one last look around her office. It would be quite a while before she could safely return. _Pity, but duty calls._ Nell nodded to no one in particular, and turned to exit through the proffered door.

The two traveled briskly down the hallway, as any military personnel would. Their swift, efficient strides led them to the main elevator bank, and Nell lightly pressed the _down_ button. Headquarters was surely busy, but within a half minute an unoccupied lift welcomingly opened its doors. Now the corporal selected the proper button. Level D. Four floors below ground.

Nell's stomach flipped as they plummeted through the building's core. Truthfully, she hated elevators, especially those belonging to headquarters. They moved too fast and too sudden. Serlin HQ boasted the fastest lifts in the capital, though Nell thought it was an inane characteristic to be proud of. The structure itself only rose twelve stories. Hardly a skyscraper in comparison to the city's numerous corporative enterprises.

Before long, though, the cable-hauled box slowed and came to a final rest. The metal doors parted to reveal yet another featureless hallway. Nell stepped out first.

"Where was Commander Andy when he sent you?"

"The comm room, ma'am. That's where I'm headed as well."

Normally Nell did not have business in the communications center, but this was the second time in recent memory that necessity drove her there. It wasn't far, just a few meters down the hall.

As she opened the door, loud chatter assaulted her ears. The staff within industriously related messages to and fro through their oversized headsets and computer terminals. Nell immediately missed the damping effect of the underground's concrete walls. _One can't have everything, though_. Oh, the sacrifices she made…

"Nell! Hey, Nell!"

She looked over. Andy's solid red work clothes provided an amusing disparity in the sea of military green and tan, as did his buoyant character. In one hand he held a folder. He grinned widely upon Nell's entrance and waved.

Nell couldn't help her smile. The young, mechanically-inclined CO almost always exhibited a cheerful attitude. It complemented his age well, and those under his direction were often quite happy to be there. Despite his overtly positive approach to life, though, he possessed a keen knowledge of battlefield tactics, and Nell could always count on him to strive for his objective with all the dedication in the world. Even if he forgot some details along the way.

She crossed the room. "Hello Andy. How's your day going?"

"Great, so far." His grin faded slightly. "Well, I guess it could be a lot better. I don't like fighting friends."

Nell sighed. "I don't find it any more affable than you do," she agreed. "Still, it doesn't mean we can't give it our all." She rested one hand on her hip and surveyed the staff. All busy, all attentive to their respective tasks and machines, each supremely proficient. They provided commanders like her and Andy with the information they required. Still scanning the room, she asked, "What brings you here? How is your task force fairing?"

Andy tilted his head and scratched at his dark brown hair. "Eh, the West Moon Fleet's taking a lot of damage. The _Nelson_ is in for repairs, and I just got word that the _Jack James_ carrier group got hit by the Green Earth Air Force. I think they're coming back to drydock too." But he beamed up to Nell regardless. "I'll be overseeing the repairs myself, though, so both'll be back to _ship shape_ in no time!"

Nell groaned mildly at his pun and shook her head. _Nothing if not enthusiastic…_ "I know you won't worry yourself over the losses, but just keep in mind, it's to be expected. Drake's navy is peerless." She glanced sidelong to Andy. "Though having a mechanic on call is certainly beneficial when fighting a defensive war."

"Thanks, Nell." He didn't bother referring to her as _ma'am_ or _commander_, and Nell didn't dwell on it. She'd known the young man for several years, and she was comfortable with such casual exchanges.

"There's something else." Andy's tone dropped, the change almost unnoticeable. Nell picked up on it easily. Despite Andy's perpetual optimism, she could tell when he had serious information to deliver. This was one such case. The younger CO offered his folder to her.

Nell accepted it wordlessly and flipped it open. It contained a series of glossy monochrome photographs, and by themselves they were nothing special. Most military intelligence photos circulated in similar format. As Nell took a closer look, Andy continued.

"I know you can tell, but they're satellite. That's Omega Land, Yellow Comet territory. The Trepidial Sea. The first picture is from yesterday."

She examined the designated piece. A large inlet from an unlabeled sea spread over the west side. Angular patterns dominated the center. A port town, or a naval base. Nell considered the nature of the photographs and guessed the latter.

"The next shot was taken this morning, by the same satellite. It's the only one we have that orbits over that base," Andy explained. He shrugged. "That's what your intelligence people said anyway."

Nell shuffled the pieces and brought up the next one. It covered roughly the same area, but within the bay were ships, their discolored wakes revealing their identities. _A fleet. Not a very large one, though._ Nell thumbed through the rest of the folder's items. They were styled differently, and the cornered dates marked them as older by several years. Probably just inserted to be thorough. She touched a finger to her lips and thought out loud, "Interesting..."

"Yea! That's what I said." Andy palmed his neck and grinned sheepishly. "But I really didn't get them. I figured you'd understand them a lot better than I do, Nell."

She closed the folder and handed it back. "That's fine. Thank you for bringing these to my attention, at least."

"What do you make of it?"

She wished she had a solid answer, but a feasible explanation escaped her. She shook her head. "It's hard to say. That Yellow Comet fleet looks relatively small, and mostly comprised of landers. Minimal escorts. It could house anything from several platoons to a pair of companies." She drew up numbers in her head, based on the most recent reports of Omega Land's troop strength. Rachel's forces were strained, but there were still units in the northern continental regions, dealing with Green Earth and some minor Yellow Comet pieces.

What puzzled her, though, that this was hardly an efficient use of Yellow Comet's navy. They were still marshalling their forces in Omega, and it would make more sense to await those preparations and embark _en masse_. One or two companies would not turn the tides, especially if blatantly announcing their departure to watching satellites. The Comets weren't stupid. They knew the extent of Orange Star's space-borne surveillance network. _So why are they making such boldfaced movements?_

If Andy caught on to her train of thought, he didn't express it. "Do you think they're up to something?" he asked, his voice bearing curiosity rather than concern.

"I don't know," she murmured. "It's clear they have a plan. This fleet's relocation spells something…" She couldn't put a word to it, other than _strange_.

Nell's deliberation was severed by a telephone's loud, out-of-place ringing. She looked about, as did Andy, for the source of the disturbance. Her eyes rested on one device in particular: a nondescript, plain red satellite phone, used for overseas communication.

The same one Grit had tapped through to contact her.

The corporal, who'd wandered off to attend her own business, took the initiative and ended the machine's obnoxious racket. She brought the earpiece up and spoke. "Serlin comm center."

For a few brief moments she appeared to listen intently. Nell watched her for a reaction. There was only the grooving of her brow as seconds passed. Then, without saying anything further, she held out the device to Nell.

"Ma'am. It's your _friend_," she said, frowning. "I'm sorry about this. The technicians tried to re-encrypt the lines, but it looks like it didn't work…"

Nell's expression solidified. _Grit again?_ Professionally, the continued disruptions of her duties were becoming a nuisance, but as before, she knew his communiqués were never frivolous. Not in wartime. Recalling yesterday's vague-yet-significant conversation, Nell bid the phone and received it.

"This is Nell," she started simply. _Just in case…_

The precaution was unnecessary. Grit's drawl was disjointed in comparison to Nell's everyday dialogues. "'Lo there, Nell. Your guys just can't wrap their heads 'round my calls, can they?"

"No, I suppose not." She avoided calling Grit by name; it would only serve to create questions among her subordinates. "I will hand it to you, though; you have them running in circles."

Grit laughed once. "I reckon I do, darlin'. Say, I heard the weather over there's mighty nice. I've got some leave stashed away, an' the Bearded One wouldn't miss me, that's for certain. Maybe I'll wander over to Orange Star. We could catch up-"

"Grit," she interjected, forgoing her earlier taboo, "I'm sorry, but I honestly don't have all the time in the world. I'm busy. We're busy. The Green Earth navy is at our doorstep and we're struggling to hold them off as it is. If you have something to say, please say it. I have things to address and places to be." As abruptly as she'd begun, Nell finished her short-lived rant. She hadn't meant to mouth so aggressively, but even she was starting to feel the weight of her responsibilities.

Grit, however, only chuckled. "I know, I know. You've got a lot on yer plate, and your little war ain't fightin' itself. Believe it or not, I'm not just lazin' about, phoning you 'cause it strikes my fancy. Makin' my last call was harder than finding the grub itself. I don't want you to think I'm yanking yer chain."

Nell rubbed her forehead. _I know you aren't, Grit. I'm sorry for my outburst._ It was what she wanted to say. What she should've said, to a good friend. But her patience was rapidly thinning. "Ok. Alright. I'm listening."

"Thankya. Now, as you mighta guessed, I dug up some new info concerning the Comets." He cleared his throat, presumably in preparation. "You said that yer special forces people didn't have a thing t'do with Kanbei, and I believe you on that point. The problems is, though, you can't really prove it. An' even if ya could, it wouldn't rightly matter. They're bent on fightin' a war one way or another."

"Yes, we know. They've essentially refused all offers of diplomacy."

"Uh huh. Here's the kicker, though. Rumor has it they've actually got an Orange Star feller they're pinnin' the blame on."

So, they found a scapegoat. An interesting but not unexpected event. Nell mulled over the implications of Grit's news and formulated a question. "Is this individual an Orange Star citizen they've seized, or an expatriate?"

"I'm afraid I dunno the answer to that one, Nell. My source is pretty deep, but even they don't know all th' niceties of this scuffle. I'm sure you can plan for it either way."

True, she could. She would have to. If the individual was a tourist, then Orange Star would have all the more reason to throw everything they had at the Comets. If they were a former citizen that relocated to Yellow Comet, then their assertions of state-sponsored terrorism would be politically baseless. That wouldn't stop the war, but it would give Blue Moon and other minor nations a reason to stay out of the conflict.

A third possibility surfaced between these two ideas, one that was remote but foreboding. What if Emperor Kanbei had truly been killed by an Orange Star citizen, outside the government's authority? On his own, using his own methods? That would leave the country in a precarious international position, especially if the plotter claimed ties to the OSA in a crazed, desperate statement. There was no telling what methods Yellow Comet's Inner Ministry used to _extract_ information from him.

Nell filed these considerations away for later examination and refocused on the present. "Grit, I have another question. Where are you getting these reports? Does Blue Moon have a high-level spy in the YC government?"

Grit chortled again, entertained by his intentionally vague deliveries. "Now that'd spoil all the fun, wouldn't it darlin'? I give you credit for tryin', but you know I can't comment on the matter. Loose lips sink ships, an' all that."

_Worth a shot_. "I'd say your lips have been pretty loose already, with everything you've give us so far."

"You'd be surprised. I _may or may not_ know a sight more'n I'm lettin' on to, but for obvious reasons I can't say everything the BMIO's scrounging up. National security, as the Bearded One of'n remarks."

A pregnant pause. Nell didn't quite know what to say next, beyond thanking Grit for his help once more. She was piecing together some sort of grateful response when he spoke again.

"And Nell… I'm sorry 'bout Max." He sounded quite sincere over the phone, a departure from his carefree nature. "I can't imagine our Green friends givin' him his last meal and smoke, but it's a shame nonetheless. I hope he comes outta this like he went in. Life just wouldn't be the same with a different Maxie boy around."

Nell smiled sadly. Grit was a truly well-meaning fellow. She knew he hated seeing his colleagues at odds, in danger. His concern touched her deeply. "Thank you, Grit. I hope the same. Time will only tell."

A muffled breath. "Aww, possum spit. I'm gettin' all teary eyed just talkin' 'bout him," he admitted with a shaky laugh. "Sometimes I get a bit nostalgic over the good ole days, when we were all Orange Star. But I'll never say I regretted my swappin' sides. I had my reasons then an' I still do now."

Nell pondered Grit's mild confession. Perhaps it was true, that he did not lament his defection to Blue Moon, but Nell couldn't help but wonder if Grit's aid wasn't impelled by some desire to compensate for it. Perhaps an informal act of apology to Nell, and Orange Star as a whole. She was tempted to ask, but she refrained. Now was not the time.

"Again, Grit… thank you for your help. When this is over, maybe we can all get together and reminisce about those 'good old days'."

She waited for his reply. None came. Nell frowned. "Grit? Are you there?" Nothing. _Did he hang up? That was sudden._ Maybe he needed time to deal with the reality of it all. More likely, some external force prompted him to end the call prematurely. According to his own words, Olaf was entirely unaware of his communications with Orange Star, and Grit probably wanted to keep it that way. Whatever the explanation, she was sure it was justified.

As she returned the phone to its cradle, the corporal eyed her warily. Andy, however, spoke first in excitement.

"So that was Grit? How's he doing? What'd he want?" He seemed genuinely thrilled to hear from the Blue Moon CO, even via a secondhand talk with Nell.

"He seems to be fine," Nell told him. She looked between him and the corporal. The latter seemed confused and unsure about what had just taken place. Nell could hardly blame her. She lowered her voice. "And as you've guessed, Corporal, our informant _is_ Commander Grit of Blue Moon. I would appreciate if you did not discuss this information with anyone else." She hardened her gaze. "I would _very much_ appreciate it."

The corporal nodded, both visibly satisfied with Nell's answer and in confirmation of her orders. "Yes ma'am, I understand. Mum's the word."

There was no reason to doubt her sincerity. Nell glanced about. Those within earshot of the low words were focused on their tasks, thick headphones blotting all outside commotion. _Good._ She had no wish to individually explain to eavesdroppers the imperative secrecy of the matter. She looked to Andy again.

"The same applies to you as well. Nothing to anyone, except persons under my direct jurisdiction."

Andy, however, simply grinned and threw a half-sincere salute. "You've got it, Nell."

"Excellent. Now that we-"

"Commander." The interruption came from her left. A uniformed man stood in the doorway, eyes set on Nell. She hadn't even noticed his entrance. Immediately Nell interpreted his gaze, his stance, and his tension. His free hand was balled into a fist, and the glint of perspiration on his face suggested, at the very least, mild fret. All of these items gave her enough reason to divert her attention.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

His eyes shifted about the room, but not as though he was in search of something. Then they returned to Nell. "You'd better come with me, ma'am." Nothing else. No basis for his demand. His wording formed a request, but his pitch did not. For a lower-ranked officer to address her in such a way…

Nell glanced at the corporal one last time, nodding in dismissal. Then she motioned to Andy. "Let's go. We'll discuss your photographs in a minute."

As she moved to the hall, Andy tagged along behind. The man stood out of her path as they both exited the comm room. The officer shut the door and turned to walk up the corridor, remaining at Nell's side.

"Commander, I apologize for pulling you from your work, but we have something of a situation."

Their direction implied he was headed for the command center. Something had happened, something big enough to warrant his out-of-place conduct. Nell attempted to stifle the web of possibilities that sprung up in her mind. "Go ahead."

"Not a minute ago, one of our satellites ceased functioning. We're not sure exactly why, but SatTech concluded it wasn't a malfunction. It's a relatively new machine and it's been up there for a couple months with no troubles."

Nell preserved herself while she internally picked apart the officer's statement. An inactive military satellite threw a wrench into the process of strategic decision-making. Another could be launched, but preparations would take weeks at best, and at a price tag that would run into the billions. "Was it micrometeorite damage?" she asked.

"It's possible, ma'am. Doesn't happen often but it's possible. SatTech's looking into that right now."

"Which sat was it? What region did it survey?"

"Eastern Omega Land, Commander. Everything from Dorton to the Trepidial Sea."

_Trepidial Sea. Why does that name ring a bell-_

Then she remembered Andy's photographs. The Yellow Comet fleet, departing from its port with only three or four hundred soldiers. They would inevitably cross that sea.

…_was it possible?_

A disquieting sensation found its way into her heart, and Nell picked up her pace, overtaking the officer. "We have to consider the option that this wasn't an accident or random chance. It's too convenient, too opportune." The command center was fast approaching. "I want you to get a hold of SatTech again and tell them that."

The man tried to match her speed. Andy's boots clattered behind them, bringing up the rear. "What are you saying, ma'am? That our satellite was taken out by the enemy?"

She looked over her shoulder. "I'm saying it's not impossible. We need to be prepared for anything."

"But the Greens don't have that kind of technology. Neither do the Comets. Hell, even we're struggling to come up with a method for neutralizing spacecraft."

"Green Earth may not be Black Hole, but don't put it past them. They can be just as clever."

The man's face set as stone. "I sure hope not, Commander. This war's not gonna end anytime soon. We can't go losing sats left and right."

She understood his worry quite clearly. One thing after another was cropping up, hindering Orange Star's efforts to defend itself properly. So far, most of Green Earth's actions had been predictable. In line with standard military doctrine… other than the initial Omega Land HQ assault, of course. If it turned out that they, or Yellow Comet, were responsible for the satellite's debilitation…

The trio passed through the command center doorway. Nothing seemed out of place. The level of commotion was average. The only real difference was on one of the walled computer screens; instead of showing standard numbers or a video feed, it presented only white static.

Nell pointed to the aberrant display. "Is that it?"

"Yes'm. Photoreconnaissance satellite HK-12-5."

She approached the closest computer bank and set both hands down, leaning forward. "Was it running when it went offline?"

"Well, yes, Commander. They're always-"

"No," she said, cutting him off. "I'm sorry, I wasn't clear. Was it _surveying_ when it went offline?"

The officer opened and closed his mouth. He didn't know, that much was comprehensible. But he offered no excuse, instead moving to another staff member and speaking with him for a moment. Then he turned back to Nell.

"Yes, it was. 12-5 had just begun its sweep, so we weren't monitoring it yet."

That was all she needed to know. "Bring up whatever video you have. I want the last thirty seconds or so."

The officer again spoke with his compatriot, and the second man turned to the closest terminal, taking a seat and tapping out a series of commands. His fingers flew dexterously over the keyboard, and before long, he fulfilled Nell's request. "Here you go."

A single depression of the ENTER button altered the once-white monitor. Nell watched intently. For a few seconds it went dark, but then a stunning, black and white image of the earth from two hundred miles up filled the high definition screen. 12-5's last footage only caught a small fraction of the planet's surface, but it was still humbling. The landscape, entirely natural, rolled gently past, streaks of clouds obscuring the picture every so often. It was almost mesmerizing. Nell had seen real-time photo-surveillance in the past, but those experiences did nothing to dampen the effect.

The last ten seconds of the chosen piece counted down in the bottom left corner. At around the five second mark, a cylindrical mass loomed onto the picture, gradually covering the world's face.

Then there was a flash, and the screen went blank.

The static returned.

An icy ball formed in Nell's stomach. Somehow, someone had taken out HK-12-5. Destroyed it. And the vehicle of its destruction had not been an ASAT missile.

"What do you make of that?" she asked.

For a few moments there was no response. Nell's eyes found the officer again. He was conversing in hushed tones with the computer operator. Debating, even. Swapping options. When they finished, they both looked at Nell.

"Wasn't micrometeorite damage, that's for sure. And now we know it wasn't an ASAT. My friend here agrees with me; this is consistent with a killsat.

_A what?_ "Explain," she demanded plainly.

The officer licked his lips. "A killer satellite. An artificial body inserted into orbit for the purposes of destroying enemy bodies." He shook his head. "The problem is, those sorts of satellites were banned under the ISC agreement, fifteen years ago. The International Satellite Cooperative agreement. It was supposed to prevent nations from putting nuclear weapons into orbit under the pretenses of recon sats. Looks like someone didn't bother upholding their end of the bargain, though."

"How'd they get it up there without our knowing? We monitor launches worldwide. _Everyone_ monitors launches worldwide," Nell professed. "It's impossible to _sneak_ a spacecraft into space."

But he only shrugged, holding up his open hands in apology. "I have no idea, ma'am. We can go back and review records, but I don't know if it'll help. Right now we really should concentrate on stopping any more of our sats from going dead."

_Damn it._ He was right. They had more pressing concerns. Determining the origin of these new, mysterious killsats would have wait until later. "Right. Right. Ok." She tugged at one earlobe, and even as she did it she recognized the stress that was quickly overcoming her. Overcoming all of them. She breathed in and out, trying to dissipate her clouded thoughts. "First thing's first. Get in touch with SatTech and inform them of the situation. Tell them to take whatever measures are necessary to watch for any more of these _killsats_, and to avoid them. Then tell them to come up with a list of possible countermeasures. I do _not_ have it in mind to sit around and let these things blind us."

"Yes ma'am. I'll get right on that." He saluted and engaged in another conversation with the technician. Nell only watched the white, static screen. She peered into it deeply, as though it held the answers she sought.

Andy walked up next to her, following her gaze. He glanced to her, and then to the monitor. "Uhh, Nell… what's going on? I didn't get all that…"

Nell sighed and removed her cap. "Honestly, Andy? I don't get it either," she said. "I don't get any of it."


	11. Not So Far

_Fucking rain._

The wet fell in constant, heavy sheets. Unending hordes of big, fat raindrops splattered against the forested canopy, creating a perpetual racket that masked even Sepp's own breathing. But the natural overhead umbrella did nothing to keep him dry. It only darkened the afternoon into a depressed shadow of its former self. Streams of skywater funneled through the trees and leaves, falling as torrents of liquid misery that spattered against the slushed ground everywhere and anywhere, bent on flooding the entire earth.

Sepp huddled crouched against a tree. He hurt from sitting on its knotty roots, but it was better than the mud, though not by much. His fucking sheetwrap didn't do a damn thing, either. He even wore two, and his _wrap's wrap_ didn't help. His clothes, boots, socks, skin – all sopped. He had a suspicion the rain's goal was to make him as unhappy as possible. And it was succeeding.

The heavens chose that moment to pour salt on his wounds, and the rainfall suddenly plunged heavier than before.

_Fucking rain. _

He scowled. It was the first real storm they'd had in a long while, and at the worst time. Or the best time, he supposed, if you were a_ fucking fish._ No lightning, no thunder. Just wet. Sepp drew his plastic sheets tighter. He wasn't sure why he bothered. Fucking humidity. It made him sweat. _Yes, thank you. I'm not drenched enough yet, Goddamnit._

He fidgeted uncomfortably, striving to adjust his wooded seat, to shrink away from the rain and the damp. Didn't help. In fact, he was sure he made things worse. He cursed aloud, his voice barely audible above the weather. Wasn't even sure what he'd said. Not that it mattered.

Limp hair slithered down his forehead and into his face. Sepp's scowl grew, and his eyes crossed painfully at the intruder. Someone upstairs was daring him to expose his last bastion of comfort. Out of spite he almost refused. But the blonde lock did not give up easily, dripping water onto his nose. _Fucking…_

As carefully as he could, he found a part in the sheets and ventured forth with a limb into the inundated world. He did what he could to keep himself sealed from the weather. Sure enough, though, as he flicked the matted hair away, rain streamed down his arm and flooded his defenses, soaking what little dryness he'd so vigilantly cradled.

"Motherf…"

It was done. Couldn't be reversed. Sepp growled in frustration and felt for the tree trunk. If he was gonna be wet to the bone, then he was gonna do something to get his mind off of it. He pushed himself to his feet, boots squishing as his full weight came to bear. He looked to the ground. Pooled rain sloshed from his poncho's hood and fell to the muddy brown swirling around his footwear. The streaming water broke against the proofed leather. There was no dirt. Only thick muck and drowned grass.

Sepp walked – wasn't sure where – and each movement squelched loudly in the storm. He bent his head and pulled his hood down over his eyes while avoiding a meandering creek – an honest-to-God creek that hadn't existed two hours ago. It emptied into a shallow sea of wet sand and plant life. The dust storms from the last war made rain all the more obstructive.

The forest wasn't terribly thick. Just a couple handfuls of trees scattered over a few miles. But their trunks were broad, and they grew tall. Tall enough that such a sparse scattering blanketed the understory. _Not well enough_, Sepp thought bitterly. He trudged on, clutching at his personal tarp with one hand and his hood with the other. He kept his eyes low in a vain search for solid ground, and the fixation nearly caused him to run headlong into a huge beast that loomed from the rain's dark cloak.

Startled, Sepp took a step back – and onto a slick sheet of muddied earth. Gravity did not agree with the sudden shift of weight, and his boot slipped, sending him toppling ass-first into the brown mess. To add insult to injury, Sepp's hood abandoned him, exposing his face to the elements.

"_Sonuvabitch!_"

"Having a good day, Sepp?"

He jerked his head to find the commenting joker. Sigfried's large frame was hard to miss, even in the shit conditions. He too wore a green poncho, but his bald skull was covered by a wide-brimmed drill instructor's hat. A perpetual waterfall spilled from whatever edge happened to be angled at that moment. The cap did little to keep Sigfried dry, though. Regardless, he grinned down at Sepp's predicament, utterly oblivious to the rain pattering against his face.

"Oh yea, just _fuckin' peachy_, that's for sure," Sepp replied sourly. "Now are you gonna stand there like a drunk or help me up, you bastard?"

"That's not fair. I haven't been drinking."

"Bullshit, Sig. I can _smell_ the booze through this piss-poor weather."

If anything, Sigfried's grin grew wider, but he squatted as best he could and held out a hand. Sepp gripped it and, with Sigfried's aid, hauled himself to his feet. He didn't bother cleaning himself off. The rain would do that, and it Goddamn well owed him.

"Next time," he spat, "don't stand in the middle of fuckin' nowhere so I can blunder into ya."

"Wasn't me, honest." Sigfried flicked his head to his rear, the motion tossing droplets in all directions. "Bruce's the culprit."

Sepp peered into the damp. At first he saw nothing, but eventually he distinguished a vehicle's outline, and an enormous wall of metal. _Bruce._ The unofficial nickname for the OSA's prime mobile artillery piece. This particular one'd taken a nice place right in Sepp's path, and if he didn't still possess half a mind, he'd have been tempted to kick it. But that wouldn't solve a damn thing, and considering his luck, it would probably send him sprawling into the mud again.

Sepp sighed. "Why the fuck are we out here, Sig?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Sigfried laughed. Nothing seemed to bring his mood down, and some part of Sepp was jealous. "'Cause Roma's in charge! And the artillery's her favorite pet. She's the only competent artillery officer in Max's battalion, don't you know?"

"Yea, yea…" It was true. Colonel Max was famous for his skill in direct combat, and infamous for his lack thereof with mobile guns. Roma was probably the only real officer in his posse that actually gave a damn about the art of artillery. Sepp often wondered if that was why she was so despotic: because she'd had the misfortune to be placed under the worst possible CO for her specialty.

_Well, she can go shove it and request a transfer._ Sepp enjoyed Max's command. Probably 'cause he was a tanker. But right now his metal monsters were going nowhere. Five dozen tons of composite armor sinks easily. And they were having fuel troubles to boot.

"Well, she coulda brought the rockets. At least they're fun to watch." That was probably the only thing he found entertaining about the Army's MLRS – multiple launch rocket system. When a group of them threw their oversized fireworks into the air, it was pretty impressive. Something to chew popcorn to.

But Sigfried only folded his arms and shook his head. "No way. They'd light up our position like a shopping mall. 'Least the dumb shells don't flare on the ascent."

_Fuck it_. Fate itself conspired to remove what little contentment Sepp retained. His shoulders sagged. _I give up. You've won, God. Congratulations._

But the rain refused to let up.

A disembodied voice came from somewhere in the gloom. "You two don't want to be there in about five minutes. We're set to throw a salvo."

Both men turned to look for the voice's source. Roma approached, the pitiful visibility only revealing her profile when she came within ten feet. She was dressed like Sigfried, but instead of the standard issue poncho, she'd found a heavy trench coat. Her hat was also expansive, and also failed to act as shielding. Still, the rain wasn't bothering her, apparently.

Sepp looked to her, then Sigfried again. "Where the fuck did you guys get those hats? And why don't I have one?"

Sigfried just shrugged. Roma actually answered, "They were in the command truck."

"Any more?"

"No."

"I don't even know why I bother," Sepp lamented as he looked to the nearest Bruce. Its engine rumbled softly under the noise of the storm. The crew was probably all nice and cozy within their death-spewing machine. Sepp felt a pang of longing for his Oberon.

"Did you just come from the truck?" Sigfried asked Roma.

"Yes. Like I said, we're commencing bombardment in five. There's a Yellow Comet encampment about twenty-two klicks north, and we're supposed to send them a message."

"Ah, so we're finally fightin' the Comets now too, eh?" Sigfried laughed. "About time! Send them a message indeed!"

Roma moved closer, completing a rough triangle of conversation with her two fellow lieutenants. The close quarters actually suppressed the rainfall, providing something like respite. "I also spoke with Major Kullins."

Sepp twisted his neck at the Major's name. He caught Sigfried's expression, and even the big man's smile faded. Sepp spat, the wad instantly lost in the downpour. "What's that asshat want of us now?"

"In truth, he wants nothing. His news wasn't good, though." Roma hunched her shoulders and squinted. "He said to not expect satellite coverage for too much longer. They're being taken out."

"What, like taken offline? Why?"

She shook her head. Wet spattered from her hat onto Sepp's face, but at this point he really didn't care. "No. They're being _destroyed_. The Major heard it straight from the top – someone's downing our sats."

Sepp could only blink in confusion. "Wait – what? From the C-in-C?"

"Yes. Commander Nell herself."

_Fuck._ "How many have we lost?"

"Two. The first earlier today. The second just an hour ago."

_Two satellites, gone?_ Wasn't like it was some rumor either; the news came straight from Nell. Well, straight from Nell and through Major Kullins. But he wasn't one to fabricate information, even if he was an old bastard. "Well, fuck!" Sepp threw his hands up in defeat, though his tarp impeded his efforts. "Isn't that just _dandy?_ So who was it, huh? The Greens? Yellow Comet?"

Roma's eyes hardened. "We don't know."

"Wonderful! We don't know! We didn't know about this storm coming in, either! If we can't track a buncha fuckin' clouds, then why do we need the sats at all?" Sepp spun on his heels – as best he could – and made to stalk off. He was acting like a child throwing a tantrum, he knew, but he didn't give a shit. Nothing was going right. Wasn't like anyone could stop him. Christoph was the boss, and he wasn't around.

"Sepp, get the hell back here," Roma called after him. He ignored her. He just needed some time to clear his head, he told himself, and Mommy Roma wasn't gonna prevent him.

"That's an _order_."

He paused mid-stride. _Fucking hell._ In his anger he'd forgotten that Roma was _acting Captain_ for the platoon. He bent his head and clenched his fists. Hard. So hard they shook. By force of will he stemmed a mounting flow of obscenities.

"Sepp-"

"Yea, I heard ya," but he didn't budge. Just stood there. He wasn't walking away, and he figured that was good enough. He looked for something, anything, to lash out against. But he was alone, soaking wet, standing in the mud.

Eventually, reluctantly, he turned back and slogged through the mire once more, at a deliberately slow pace. As he did Roma said something to Sigfried – Sepp couldn't make it out – and the logistics lieutenant threw a salute and wandered off. By the time Sepp returned to Roma, Sigfried was gone, swallowed by the murk.

"Where's he goin'?"

"To ready the strike. Listen, Sepp-"

But Sepp waved a hand, cutting her off. "Shit. I know. You're my superior officer and all that junk. For the time being, at least." He retracted the hand into his plastic sheets, and looked Roma in the eye. "I ain't planning to be unruly. I just…" He trailed off, sighing. It was proving tricky to put his thoughts to speech.

Roma flipped her trench coat's collar up, and in combination with her cap it made for a funny appearance. "Listen, Sepp. We're all under a lot of pressure. Losing surveillance doesn't help me any more than it helps you, or the Major." She actually grinned, a gesture she rarely made. "And when the _Major_ is under pressure, you can imagine what he's like. I had to deal with him over the radio."

"Yea, well, while _you_ were in the truck chatting with Kullins, _I _was out here knee-deep in filth." Sepp kicked a small rock, sending it splashing into a puddle. "As much as I hate him, I woulda preferred his company to the rain's."

"Nothing is stopping you from coming in, you know."

Sepp's mouth pressed. He guessed she was right. Why hadn't he simply gone to find shelter? Some sense of pride? Whatever excess pride he'd hoarded had either been washed away or discarded with his outburst. And pride wasn't a real useful resource to have during war. Wasn't in demand and wasn't going for much.

Roma coughed. "Now you're thinking about it, aren't you?" She turned halfway, still looking at Sepp over her shoulder. "Come on, let's join Sig. We can watch the pyrotechnics from the command truck."

She walked away. Sepp only watched her receding form. He was authentically bemused by her kind performance. Relatively kind, of course, for Roma. He'd expected an argument or a lecture, a shouting contest, swallowed by the monsoon. But no, she'd dealt with his fit without a quarrel.

Was that why she was in charge? Because she could handle such situations? Had Major Kullins picked her for more than her experience?

Whatever the explanation, Sepp ultimately found himself following in her footsteps. He resolved to take her up on her offer of a dry residence. To watch the pyrotechnics, as she'd said.

Didn't even matter that the entertainment would deliver death to men twenty kilometers away.

(())

Christoph's foot clattered against a chip of fragmented mortar. He watched it roll unevenly atop the concrete sidewalk, and fall over the edge to the tarmac. It bounced once, white flakes sprinkling, before coming to a sudden rest next to an open storm drain. For a while Christoph simply gazed at the piece, as though expecting it to continue its journey into the gaping drain. But it remained still.

He looked up to the nearest structure. Perhaps it was an office building at one time. It was impossible to tell now. The wall face was collapsed inward, revealing the broken remnants of its former occupation. Splintered desks and dead bulbs, only illuminated by the natural light of day. The floors within were edged unevenly, like the images in a child's cutaway book gone horribly wrong.

Loch Haven's town square lay in ruins. Just six hours ago it was simple and pristine; a circular track of road garlanded by decorative trees and bushes. Now it was a confusion of cratered asphalt and blasted earth, structures razed by the very machines that sat dead, their artificial corpses blockading the landscape. Nothing remained untouched. Those tracts of concrete and blacktop that had not been scarred were peppered by bits of their neighbors. Almost every window was bare of glass, and many hinges lacked doors to fill them. It was as though God himself had been involved in the fray. And both sides lost as a result.

As Christoph swept the square, his eyes came to rest on the town hall. Or, the half that remained. It stood silently amidst the wreckage. At some point in the past few hours, most of the western wall face had crumbled, revealing the interior for all to see.

He felt an uncomfortable mixture of anger and shame at the sight. Uncomfortable, but not unknown. He caught himself looking for life, and forcefully tore away from the visage. _Hopeless._ He scrunched his nose and grit his teeth, trying to expunge the image from his mind. A few brave soldiers from Sami's platoon had investigated the hall after the battle. They found nothing. Nothing but bodies. The only thing their inspection revealed was the number of dead civilians.

His gums worked, and eventually spat the word, "Twelve…"

That number remained steadfast at the forefront of his thoughts, both unreal and too real. He'd hoped that by saying it aloud, it would help erase the convoluted eddy of feelings weighing on every bone and synapse. But they continued to swirl within, refusing all offers of exit.

Twelve souls gone from the earth. Back to their maker, never to return. Flesh to the mud and spirits to the sky, or so the clergy said. Christoph didn't know what was on the other side of death. He didn't honestly care. All that mattered was that they weren't here anymore, and they'd been killed on his watch. On his battlefield. Under his charge.

He bent by the roadside, scooping up the inert mortar. A little piece of Loch Haven, a piece that should've never met the ground. A piece that should still be a part of the office building it was baked into. Should still be a part of the town it belonged to.

_The deaths are just numbers._

He squeezed, hard, trying to cling to those words, as he clung to the rock in his hand. He'd believed them once, when news of Valleigh's ruination reached him. He'd accepted the deaths of nameless mothers and fathers, shopkeepers and businessmen. His parents escaped in time. That was all that mattered. But these twelve dead persisted. They weren't numbers anymore. They were people, people who'd depended on the army to protect them, and as the representative for the army, Christoph had failed. The victory over Green Earth wasn't enough compensation.

It just _wasn't fair_.

He let out an aggravated yell and flung the rock. His hand felt empty and for a fraction of a second he searched for more debris to throw. But he checked his physical reaction and set his trembling jaw. Anger still bubbled within, only contained by self-control, more an automatic reaction from boot camp than any real effort on his part.

He merely stood there, breathing heavily, fists clenched. Shaking. That awful sound replayed in his head. Tearing metal, sundered by 30 mm rounds from the enemy Lightning. The final moments of both his tank and the town hall. The hall itself had probably been destroyed by rockets, but Christoph couldn't sever the mental connection between the Lightning's cannon and the ruined image hovering behind his eyes. He screwed them shut but it remained, plastered to the skin of his lids, ever present.

_Fucking Greens._

He returned to the world seething no less than before. His self-imposed solitude, however, was interrupted by a new arrival.

From the corner of a building, not ten meters away, emerged a single soldier. This by itself was rather ordinary; men still milled about, securing the town and searching for wounded. The figure Christoph noticed, though, sported an odd set of gear.

An alarm bell went off in his head, a signal that did what he'd struggled to do for hours – clear his clouded mind. Christoph felt for his sidearm and drew the weapon, holding it low in both hands. The man continued into the square. His head pivoted back and forth in constant watch of his surroundings. He kept his hands out, away from his sparse gear. In one he held… something.

The man's neck stopped turning as he came to face Christoph. He froze, and Christoph with him. Christoph tensed. If he was right, then there was no telling what this man's intentions were…

But the man did nothing more than raise his full hand and dangle whatever it was he held. Christoph squinted. Looked like a white cloth. Then the man said something. The words were tinged with an Erdsprech accent, and it hindered interpretation. The fabric he presented, though, flagged a universal message: surrender.

Christoph advanced steadily and cautiously. The man spoke again, shaking his displayed piece once more.

_I get it already_. As Christoph moved within a few feet, he swept the man for weapons. None were visible. He caught the man's eyes, and summoned what he hoped was an authoritative voice.

"Identify yourself."

The man only stared, mouth partly open. Christoph inspected the manufacture of his uniform. A ringed green circle patch adorned his sleeve, confirming his nationality.

He looked up again. "Who are you?" he repeated.

The soldier's face was written with worry. His eyes flickered warily to Christoph's gun. Christoph surmised that he was contemplating the merits of surrendering to the gun's owner. But eventually he bit his lip, and said two words:

"Green Earth."

_Shit._ That was it, then. An abandoned soldier, caught behind Orange Star lines. Christoph had taken prisoners in the past, but they'd all been Black Hole. A different class of person altogether. There was little incentive to treat those men humanly, after what they'd done to Omega Land. But this… this was leagues apart. This was Green Earth. A friend even, at one time.

Christoph gave him a once-over, a last sweep for firearms and knives. He spotted nothing dangerous, but the inspection brought another fact to light. The man was clad in aviation gear. Or partially clad, in any case. Though he wore no helmet, his flying vest gave him away. Christoph did not recall seeing any Green Earth interceptors in the sky. The only enemy aircraft present had been the Lightning-

His eyes narrowed. "You're Green Earth?"

The man nodded. "Yes."

Christoph motioned with his gun. "Pilot?"

The only response was a quizzical expression.

Christoph swallowed, and his face scrunched. One last question he readied behind his lips. He was almost afraid to ask.

Almost.

"Are you a pilot? Did you fly the Lightning?" He searched for the proper words, his poor Erdsprech telling. "Bleitz? Lotze?"

Still sporting a puzzled look, it was a few moments before the man nodded again, tentatively.

The Green's silent confirmation slapped Christoph as easily as a string of the most profane words known to man. Slowly, he lowered his arms, dropping both his gaze and his gun. This was the pilot. The pilot of the Lightning, shot down sometime during the course of the battle. The same one who'd rendered 30 a useless hulk of scrap and almost killed him and his crew. An enemy. The bringer of death to _his_ men. To _his_ tanks.

And to those civilians under Christoph's protection.

Christoph's skull began to thump, a buried vein pulsating with the revelation. Lightly, at first, but within moments it grew into a rough throbbing. Then a pounding, a tank shell slamming into his cranium over and over. He was suddenly far too warm, and the sun was far too close. The pain did not let up. The pain and the frustration and the unjust nature of both. He needed an outlet. Something. Anything at all.

And it was right in front of him.

His boot lashed out and connected with the man's stomach. The Green's eyes bulged in their sockets as he was suitcased, folded in two. He staggered backward, clasping his gut and holding one arm out in an attempt to yield. Christoph didn't care. He stepped forward and whipped his sidearm across the pilot's face. The man's mouth exploded with blood. It spattered onto his flying vest.

"You _fuck!_" Christoph seized him by the collar. "You miserable _fuck!_ Do you know what you _did?_"

But the pilot did not answer. Red dribbled from his lips. An ugly gash split across his cheekbone. His mouth moved, but the only things that came forth were garbled noises of pain. His eyes said terror, though.

Christoph's face screwed up in fury. He let the rage pour onto his helpless victim as he roared, _"I asked you a fucking question, Green!"_ Clumsy fingers scrabbled at his grip. Christoph rammed his knee into the soldier's bruised stomach, disrupting all possible efforts at coherency.

Pure, boiling wrath flowed from his core and into Christoph's head, overcoming the last, tiny voices of decency in his mind. This was the fucker that'd blown town hall to smithereens. Dropped the bombs. Sent _civilians_ screaming to their deaths in hellfire. And he had to pay.

Christoph yanked him by the neck. "Kneel!" he barked. "Knien. _Knien!"_ He forced the man to his knees, not giving him the chance to comply. For good measure he jerked his knee up again, catching the Green in the jaw. Red wet snorted from his nose and onto Christoph's fatigues. A relaxed, succumbing look overcame his face. He sobbed once. More blood trickled from his mouth.

Christoph moved to the side, his deathgrip never letting up. He rested his pistol's barrel on the pilot's skull. "Look. Across the square." The man's head swayed to one side. Christoph wrenched him upright. _"I said look, you fucker!"_

Whether he did so because of chance or because he truly understood Christoph's words, the Green steadied. He was at least pointed in the right direction.

Christoph lowered his voice, but the underlying tone shook with barely contained hatred. "You did this. You and your Goddamned plane." The pistol's cold metal nudged against the soldier's ear. "Do you hear me? You killed those people. And for _what?_"

But the Green only blubbered. Tears of fright streamed from his eyes, mixing with his blood to create a diluted liquid that stained his uniform. He offered no answer to Christoph's question.

"For what?" The gun dug into the man's skin. "Why did you do it?_ Why?"_

Somehow, the man found the will to stutter a few mangled words. "Please… I- I- I am just a-"

"_I don't wanna fucking hear it!"_

"Captain!"

The tertiary voice cut through his focus. He turned. Sami stood a few meters away, accompanied by an infantryman. They both stared at the scene playing out before them. An Orange Star officer holding a pistol to the head of a captured soldier. A compliant soldier. She looked at the white cloth on the ground, and then back to Christoph.

"Captain, what the hell is going on here?"

He spat in the dirt and growled, "This is the fucker. He's the one. He flew that damn Lightning and killed…"

Again Sami glanced at the cloth. "Christoph-"

"Killed the civilians!" he blurted. "He did it! I swear to fucking God…"

She held one hand palm out and approached, slowly. "Now, Christoph, unless he actively assaulted you-"

"Who gives a shit?" Christoph knew his pitch bordered hysteria, but all his concerns were swept away by the river of vehemence flowing through body. "He deserves it! Who's to say he doesn't?"

Sami's eyebrows came together. He could tell she didn't welcome his interruptions, or his vulgarity. "I do, Captain. As the highest ranking officer on the premises, I decide the fate of prisoners. But it looks to me like you're taking that matter into your own hands." She continued forward, closing the distance. "And I do not recall passing that power to you. So if you would _please_ reholster your weapon, we'll determine the best course of action for dealing with this man."

Christoph's scowl intensified. He had no respite from his pounding head. It still hindered his thoughts. Sami just didn't get it. She didn't _understand._ "I need to…" he croaked, before he thought the words through. _Fucking headache._ Screwed everything up.

Sami stopped only a few paces away, one hand hovering over her sidearm, eyes locked on Christoph. "The only thing you need to do is _lower your gun_ _and_ _step away from the prisoner._"

Christoph wavered. His hand was shaking, and he hadn't even noticed. _Goddamnit. God damn it all to hell._ He needed to do something to rectify his failure. To make amends for it. _And what better way, than to execute the bastard that caused this whole clusterfuck?_

"Captain, I am giving you a _direct order_. Lower your weapon. _Now._"

He drew a quaking breath. Ground his teeth and bit his gums. Sweat hung from his forehead. His trigger finger twitched. Flexed.

And he stepped away.

In two quick strides Sami was upon them both, moving between Christoph and the soldier. But Christoph hardly noticed. He only looked at his gun. How close had he come to pulling the trigger? How close had he come to putting a bullet in the Green's head? He tried to remember, even now, and found it impossible.

A hand gripped his. "Christoph, give it to me." He looked up. Sami's green eyes bored into his own, only a foot's distance between them. Her expression was unmoving and cold. Professional.

Christoph simply loosened his grasp. The gun fell away into Sami's possession. With it went a lot less anger than he'd hoped, and he gained no satisfaction. He felt empty. He'd had the opportunity to repay the Greens in kind, for what they did. And he'd blown it at Sami's insistence.

The anger was still there, though, unabated, and he recklessly blazed through a million channels of direction. There were no options. No methods of release.

And then one made itself known, sprouting against the odds. A single obscure quantum of roundabout logic, an instant in history that chose to surface at that precise moment. Its implications he did not fully process, and before he knew it, he started up again.

"You're infatuated with him, aren't you?"

Sami had knelt beside the bleeding Green Earth soldier, doing her best to aid him, but Christoph's query apparently struck the right bell. Or the wrong bell. She stopped mid-motion, still facing away. "What was that?"

"You know what I'm talking about. _Him._ That… Green Earth commander." He dug for the name. "_Eagle_. He led the forces we faced today." Christoph recalled the previous day's war room meeting. He remembered Sami's reaction to the topic of Eagle quite well, and Rachel's reluctance to share information. He'd heard vague rumors about it, or something to that effect, and now he was gambling on those rumors. "You heard me. You're _infatuated_ with him," he accused her, both with his words and a pointed finger.

But she did not turn. She did not ready the argument Christoph hunted. He hunted relief. _Release_ for all his built up fury and tension. When she said nothing, he pushed on.

"Who woulda guessed, you know? Lieutenant Colonel Sami, _smitten_ by an _enemy general_." He laughed. The iniquitous noise died without an echo in the open air. "Sure, it was all fine and dandy when we were allies, but what now, Commander? Huh? How are you dealing with it now? How do you deal with _fighting_ the man you-"

"You are relieved, Captain."

Christoph's mouth was open, ready to continue his ranting allegations. Sami had said her line with no emotion. A blank, ordinary instruction from an officer two ranks above him. And it stopped him cold.

Her face appeared over her shoulder, green eyes darkened in the shade of her hair. "Did you hear me, Captain? You are _relieved_ of your duties."

Christoph pressed his lips tight. She wasn't taking it. She'd refused to deal with his behavior in a confrontational style, and that wasn't what his goal had been. There was little he could do, either. She outranked him, and he had no real grounds for his angry tirade. Her order shocked just a little bit of reason back into him. Enough to stall his quest for altercations.

_Fucking…_

"Yes. _Ma'am_." That was it, then. He turned and tramped off through the broken gravel. Didn't bother giving the infantryman a glance. He didn't give a shit what he thought, anyway.

Hell, he didn't give a shit for Sami's thoughts either. Or that fucking Green's.

If he had it his way, that man would be a corpse on the ground.


	12. Picking at Wounds

Sami ducked under the helicopter's rotors in an effort to mitigate the violent surge of wind. The TH-50 Reynault transport chopper gradually came in contact with the hard earth, its suspension settling lightly, creaking metal conquered by the whipping blades overhead. It was certainly loud, Sami reflected, but not deafening. Something she was used to, as infantry.

She waited under the chopper's whizzing canopy as its door slid open. Jake jumped from the hold as gently as he could, cradling his cast-bound arm. He rounded in time to receive the first of a pair of crutches.

_Rachel's here too? _Sami was surprised, and couldn't imagine it was medically sound to travel by air with a broken leg. She approached, one hand shielding her eyes, and tapped Jake on the shoulder. His dirty blonde hair danced in the tussling wind, and he grinned mildly before accepting the second crutch.

Rachel was helped over the edge by Sami and two men in the chopper. The CG grimaced, but said nothing. Not that speech was easy, with the blades hissing in the air. As she landed on her good leg, Jake handed over her implements, and she dug them under her arms.

"Good to see you, Commander," Sami yelled, her voice caught up in the whirlwind. Her hair fluttered in her face, but pushed it away to throw Jake a glance. "And you, Captain. We've got a ride ready." She pointed to an open-topped truck a few meters away. Her fatigues' sleeve thrashed violently.

"Thank you, Sami," Rachel acknowledged, and Jake nodded in gratitude as well. It was no use conversing, not until they removed themselves from the Reynault's tempest. As the trio made for the truck, the helicopter engine whined and the deft aircraft took off as easily as it had landed. Sami watched over her shoulder as the Reynault pivoted in mid-air and scooted off to its next mission, eventually receding over a treeline.

The fading clamor of rotaries was replaced by buzzing vehicles. Sami outpaced her companions to procure a seat for the CG. With formalities out of the way, as well as the helicopter, she tried to act a little more carefree. "I'll be honest, Rachel, I wasn't expecting your arrival via chopper. Does the Fort Iams MD know about this little vacation?"

She shrugged casually. "Of course he does."

"And his advice…?"

"Was to either remain on the grounds or take a truck to the front. As you can see," she said, tendering a knowing smile, "I ignored his counsel."

Sami swung the passenger door open and helped the CG up, with Jake's aid. The process was awkward, but soon enough they had her in her seat. Sami and Jake took up residence in the back, and she issued an order to the driver. The truck lurched and rumbled down the shattered road.

Rachel attempted to rotate in her seat as their journey began. "We've been receiving a steady flow of reports from the front. You all did a great job here today, Sami. The first victory over Green Earth, and it's something we needed."

_Well_. Someone praised her, at least. Sami wasn't normally fond of commendation, but right now she pined for any positive words. The conflict had been taxing. Not just for her, but for everyone. Most men involved were veterans of one level or another, and they'd seen enough of war. Even the officers were already feeling the pressure.

Especially the officers. Pragmatically, she didn't blame Christoph for his harangue. Today was his first command as a CO, and to some degree he'd failed. The civilians' deaths were out of his control, of course, but his secondary objective had floundered. Those townsfolk still died. Whatever was going through his head must not have been reassuring.

Emotionally, though, she bridled at the memory of his words. Cringed away from them and retreated uselessly behind intangible barricades. But they burrowed into her bone and infected the marrow itself. They coated her skin like an oily, unwashable sheen. His words hurt, and they hurt because they were true.

"Thank you, Commander," she managed. It was all she said. All she could say.

Rachel smiled. "Nell agrees, too."

Sami raised an eyebrow. "You spoke with her?"

"Yes. I had a summary forwarded to Serlin HQ. She was delighted to hear about the victory. And she wants more of them." The CG drummed her fingers over the butt of one crutch. "But we'll discuss that later. Once we reach… wherever we're going."

Sami flicked her head, directing their attention to a far-off cluster of tents. "We've set up a temporary command post in the shadow of those buildings. Should give some protection from artillery, if Green Earth decides to shell us."

Jake examined the poled canvas sheets. "Or Yellow Comet."

Sami frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There's been an unfortunate turn of events," Rachel said, fingers still working. "Somehow, by some means, our satellite network is being picked apart. We've already lost two machines, and if the trend continues, we're expecting to find at least one more gone before O-dark."

The information registered in Sami's consciousness, but the disparity between the news and the events of the day was vast. She looked to her lap in thought, mouth moving silently. _Satellites, gone? Just like that?_ "How?"

"Nell's staff is convinced killing satellites are responsible. Exactly what it says on the tin – satellites meant for destroying other bodies. SatTech's scrambling to find a solution, but progress is slow."

Her mind worked quickly, and not entirely with her consent. "What about the ASAT program?" Sami questioned. Her familiarity with air force projects was adequate enough, for a member of a different branch. The OSAF's R&D department tinkered with anti-satellite missiles in the past. The intent of the program was to develop an interceptor-launched weapon capable of reaching low orbit. As far as she knew, though, the project was keelhauled after the ISC agreement some years ago.

Rachel provided a partial explanation, at least. "The latest is that the air force is restarting development. Right now, though, they're worried about _locating_ the prototypes. Apparently they were stashed away in some warehouse out in Teldoro. The estimate is two days before they can begin analysis, and at least a week before they can even _consider_ live-launch tests."

"So that means ten days."

"Something like that." The military's agendas always slipped behind, no matter how many millions were poured into funds. Until Orange Star had an effective remedy for the problem, their space surveillance system was wholly at the mercy of the killsats' controllers. Whoever they were.

Sami, though, did not wish to squander any more time and worry over the issue than was necessary. That was a job for the engineers back in Cosmo. Her task focused on the here-and-now, and there were still unanswered questions hanging in the air. "You mentioned Yellow Comet. What's their status?"

Rachel took a deep breath, and the truck bumped over a rock. A bad omen, if Sami were to believe in them. "The dead satellites surveyed Omega Land. Specifically, the Trepidial Sea and Calciki. Everything north and south of those areas, more or less."

_Not good_. That was their combat zone. Without proper up-to-date intel, strategic decisions would become considerably riskier. And more costly. "Damn it." Sami scratched at her neck, more as something to do than because of any real itch. "What kind of coverage _do_ we have? Dorton Air Force Base, I assume?"

"That's about the extent of it. I've already ordered recon sweeps of the coast. They'll be conducted every hour, barring this approaching storm." Rachel tilted her head down, blue eyes peering at Sami over a set of imaginary glasses. "It _will_ cut into your air cover, though. I've committed sorties to the west, manpower permitting. There's an armored platoon staking out a forest, waiting for Green Earth to stumble over them. They need the help more than you do."

The news became worse and worse with each passing sentence. Sami sighed. "And Yellow Comet? What are they cooking up?"

"They've got a small fleet somewhere in the Trepidial Sea. I say _somewhere _because we _don't know where_, without cameras in the sky." She rubbed at her eyes wearily. "SatTech is trying to maneuver another to reinstate proper surveillance, but it will be some time before their replacement makes the appropriate pass."

Sami swallowed, and interpreted Rachel's impartation without her request. "So they could be anywhere? Right now? You're saying the Comets could land their force _anywhere_ along the coast, and we wouldn't know unless one of our aircraft got lucky?" She wheezed a heavy breath out. "Dorton City's practically built on the sea."

Jake joined the discussion. "Yea, tell me about it. I talked with Dorton's police chief earlier. They seemed pretty set on defending the city if they had to, but I told 'em it was a no-go. If the Comets do take Dorton, they won't treat the civilians wrong. They're no Green Earth, but they've got a pretty good sense of honor."

Sami shook her head. "It's a wonder. You Omega Landers don't seem to consider giving up an option, do you? Citizens willing to defend their homes, after a brutal war. Definitely a wonder."

The talk stopped dead after that. The fate of the town hall and its occupants had undoubtedly reached Rachel, but by the look on her face, Sami guessed she didn't wish to bring up the topic. That was fine. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it either.

And she was damn sure Christoph didn't.

She had no idea where he was now. Relieving him had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she silently prayed he didn't have the misfortune to run across another Green Earth survivor. She didn't want to deal with an unauthorized execution. All the paperwork involved…

_Why did I intervene? Because it was the right thing to do? _Bullshit. She couldn't even lie to herself properly. She knew full well she didn't dread a bunch of documents; that sort of red tape wasn't unfamiliar. _For Christoph's sake?_ No. Not for him.

_Why, then?_

Christoph's language cut deep. Hit all the wrong nerves, all at once. What if he was right? What if she couldn't fight this war? What if Eagle…

She had to stop herself from souring her face at the recollection. _Too many ifs. Too many buts. Certainty is scant._

The truck came to a measured halt outside the crowd of tents, and Sami opened her door, glad to be released from confinement. She stepped out, intent on helping Rachel once more, but first she inspected the sky to the west. The bright cerulean rolled into a shady, ominous gray some miles off. No lightning, no rumble of thunder. Just a silent, creeping darkness that advanced slowly towards Loch Haven.

(())

A bell jingled overhead as Christoph pushed the door open. A long-forgotten tune of civilization, of honest living, of proper business. The café he entered seemed like the only untouched residence in town, at least from the outside. Curiously spared from the destruction that devastated homes and industry alike.

He did not watch the door glide shut behind him, only inferring its closure by the bell's silence. No lights within. A dark doorway led to the back. The large exhibition window was sufficient for the dining area, though. There wasn't much. A cashier's counter, an unstocked pastry display, a few tables and chairs. Coffee machines and ingredient tins still sat on a few shelves behind the register. The walls were decorated with patterned wallpaper and uncomplicated flower prints. Inviting, but short of fancy.

Christoph wasn't really sure why he'd entered the café. Maybe because of its uncanny survival. It was something like a buoy in the middle of the chaotic sea that was war, a scrap of peace and normality in the ravaged world.

Or maybe he just thirsted for coffee.

His head still pounded, that was for sure. It hadn't let up. The bitter hatred ebbed away, leaving his insides all hollow. His fortitude was drained. He really didn't recall his exact words in the confrontation with Sami, but he understood how harsh they'd been. Right now, though, he didn't want to think about it. He just craved caffeine. And isolation. Both desires led him here.

He shuffled to the counter, looking about wearily for a cup. Nothing. He rounded the register and tapped one of the tins. A dull sound indicated it was full. He checked the label. Wasn't a flavor he particularly cared for, but he didn't really give two shits. It was coffee.

"Can I help you?"

Christoph whirled, hand automatically going for his pistol. Then he remembered he didn't have it. He cursed Sami silently.

But the man standing in the shadowed doorway was not uniformed as a soldier. He was quite tall, though, at least a half foot taller than Christoph, and dressed simply in dark blue jeans and a plain gray shirt. Cropped, jet black hair. A large man, but not heavyset. Just the right genes.

"You're missing your firearm, Captain."

Christoph blinked. It took him a moment to remember the presence of his newly sewn shoulder patches. "I, er… yes. I am. Observant of you." He relaxed, going through his subtle routine and searching for weapons.

"I'm not armed," the man said.

If Christoph showed surprise, he didn't mean it. "_Very_ observant of you." The man only lifted his shoulders a fraction of an inch. Christoph bit his lip awkwardly. Was he the shop's owner? A townsperson searching for goods? A looter?

Without Christoph's asking, though, he held out a hand to the tables. "This is my café. It isn't much, and I apologize. The war hasn't been kind to Loch Haven, as you can imagine." He gazed through the large front window. "Though I am fortunate to have my property in one piece." Then he fell mute. Despite his short speech, he showed little to no emotion.

Christoph suddenly felt like an intruder, a common thief. He realized he'd let himself into someone's – presumably closed – business, as indifferently as if he owned it. _Idiot. Just because there's a war on doesn't mean the world stops turning._ He worked his gums, "I, er… sorry for barging in. I didn't know anyone was still here."

The shop owner looked away from the outdoors and back to Christoph, subjecting him to his blank stare.

"I mean – I'm not trying to loot your store. I was…" he paused. What was he doing? "Honestly, I was just looking for coffee. And a quiet place, I guess."

For a while the man said nothing. Then he looked at his wristwatch, as though he was seriously contemplating closing up for the day. He coughed lightly. "I have no trouble with that, Captain. I believe I can honor your request." He turned round and retreated into the darkness, his midnight hair blending with the shadows in advance of his form.

Christoph was bemused. This wasn't quite the scene he'd expected. He shuffled his feet, awaiting the man's reemergence. He had half a mind to just leave, but his decency had returned since his paroxysm in the square. It would be insulting to step out the door without as much as a farewell. Especially to this man who'd accepted his arrival so nonchalantly.

A stuttering emerged from the darkness, the sound of a lawnmower engine failing to catch. It came again, another rough string of noise. Then a third which grew into a gentle roaring.

The ceiling bulbs flickered on. The new illumination literally cast a different sort of light in the shop. Christoph's spirits lifted, if only by the most infinitesimal of measurements. He wondered if the café drew many patrons in peacetime. He guessed it did.

The owner appeared again, rubbing his hands on an old rag. "I have a gasoline-powered generator. It suits my purposes well enough. It keeps the water running and, if necessary," he nodded to Christoph, "powers my business." The man moved to the coffee tins, setting the rag down and rummaging behind the counter. "Take a seat, if you wish."

Christoph was compelled to do as he said. He chose the smallest table available, a tiny stand only suitable for two occupants. It was wooden, fairly good quality, too. Carved intricately but not in an overblown way, both complementary to and outstanding in the café. The chair was similarly crafted, as far as he could tell. In all, comfortable. In fact, he decided, it'd been quite a while since he'd felt as comfortable as he did now.

Minutes passed and he played with a coaster until the owner approached the table with a steaming mug in each fist, setting one in front of Christoph and the other opposite. He took a seat. His shoulders hunched slightly, as though he was tired of holding them up. Like he'd carried the world's weight in the past and had long since handed off the task to someone else. Christoph knew that feeling. It wasn't the best sensation in the world, by far. All that stress did things to a man.

"There's no milk available. I apologize. But I do have sugar."

One for two wasn't bad. He'd take it. It was more than he'd dared hope for, in all honesty. This man had gone above and beyond his personal call of duty and actually served him a beverage. It was a _lot_ more than he'd dared hope. And so Christoph picked out a couple sugar packets from the table's rack, tore them open, and sprinkled their contents into his mug.

"Thank you," he said. The words shouldn't have felt strange, but they did. He wasn't sure why.

"It's nothing, truly. The least I can do for an officer that defended this town from Orange Star's enemies."

A pang of guilt struck Christoph. He tried to hide his reaction behind his mug by taking a sip. He hardly felt deserving of such tribute, even if the tribute was nothing more than a warm cup of coffee. If karma were real, it owed him a lot less. _If only this man knew…_

"Christoph. Christoph Jorn," he said. Wasn't sure why he felt it necessary to introduce himself. Or why he hadn't bothered with his title.

The man looked up from his drink. "Tanner." That was all. Christoph had no clues to if it was a given name or a surname. Probably family, but who could say? It wasn't really his place to ask.

"Well, thanks again, Tanner." Christoph sloshed his mug in a circle and peered into the lazily swirling liquid, watching bubbles form and pop. Then he took another swig. Delicious.

He found his thoughts wandering to his initial entry into the café. The way the man commented on his lack of weaponry, and his subsequent visual sweep. As he pondered their first words, it suddenly became clear to him.

"You a veteran, Tanner?"

Again, no change in emotion. Tanner was looking over Christoph's shoulder. He sipped at his drink, eyes locked on an imaginary horizon. "Yes."

"Figured as much. Which unit?"

A pause. "You probably would not have heard of it."

Christoph might've smirked, if his mood had been better. "Try me."

Another stretch of wordless nothing. The generator hummed its coarse hum in the back. Tanner was biding his time, Christoph could tell. Working his response. But he didn't seem like a liar.

Finally, he said, "Black Ops."

Tanner's vacant reactions to his questions were justified, it seemed. If he really was a retired covert operations soldier, Christoph could believe it. He had the age. The wrinkles on his pale face and his somewhat built frame only added to his claims.

It also meant he probably had more experience than Christoph did.

"Can I ask you something, then?"

Tanner's eyes flickered away from his far-off landscape. "I suppose. Within limits, of course."

He nodded. "Of course." Inhale. Exhale. "How do you deal with it? The losses? Not just soldiers, but the collateral? How do you deal with…" he choked on his own words, fighting to continue. "With a man's death? Townsfolk? Civilians? _People?_"

Those blank eyes communicated naught. Didn't even flutter. If he was giving serious thought to Christoph's question, he did not express it.

"I assume you refer to those killed in the town hall's destruction?"

Christoph's gut turned. "Yes." He almost whispered his response. Almost fearful to say it.

Tanner set his mug on the table and spread his fingers around its rim, absorbing the rising heat. He watched the steam curl around his hand and disappear into nothingness. "I worried once, as you do now, about the deaths of my men, and about the damages my command could inflict upon society. I was an officer. I feared the future, the what-ifs, the possibilities. And when those possibilities arrived, I had no guide to demonstrate how they were to be handled. My superiors gave me no instruction on the matter. I assume they gave you none either.

"The best advice I can offer you, Captain Jorn, is to accept the deaths. You gain nothing by contemplating how things could have been different. You cannot change the past. It is useless and irrational to dwell upon it. But to accept the past does not mean to reject the future. One is quite different from the other. What's done is done. The future, however, is unwritten. Strive to write it yourself, for yourself."

And with that, the shopkeeper sipped his drink again. The relative silence crept back, perturbed solely by the generator's clanking. Christoph watched Tanner, his dark eyes, and his slack, pale face. He looked like a man who'd seen a lot. The man looked old enough to be his father.

Christoph almost wanted to ask if he had children, but checked his tongue. That sort of question was too personal. He had no wish to delve into the life of a war-weary hand.

But it behooved him to listen to Tanner. To at least consider his words. Christoph didn't think he had it in him to ask Sami the same question. Not after what he'd said to her. Rachel he didn't know all that well. And Jake... the Captain probably didn't even idle over the topic.

So there was no one else. No one but this lonely veteran, the owner of a small café in the destroyed outskirts of Loch Haven, to turn to. Life was funny. Christoph chalked that much up. But maybe he could work with it.

And so, he picked up his mug, tilted his head back, and drained the whole thing in a series of gulps. Coffee wasn't something to be chugged, and it burned his gullet on the way down. But he persevered. Something to give him a kick, an edge, as a poor substitute for alcohol.

He set the empty mug down. "Sir," he addressed Tanner, speculating that he'd probably held a superior rank in his time, "thank you, again."

Tanner dipped his head. "Do not worry over it. Remember, the past is not something to become anxious about. Even if that past includes coffee. On the house, as they say."

"Are you sure-?"

"I am certain. My business can survive the expenditure of a single cup, even in times such as these." He rotated in his seat, looking outside. "In fact, _I_ should thank _you_. I haven't had a decent conversation in quite some time."

If their few words counted as a 'decent conversation', then Christoph supposed Tanner didn't get many social visits. That alone propped his soul up a bit more. He almost felt like he was giving back to the community he'd failed-

_No. That's the past. Don't dwell on it._ Seemed like a good suggestion already. Maybe he'd see it through.

"You may want to go. Rain comes." Sure enough, the first few drops pattered onto the pane glass, tickling the window and the sidewalk outside. The sky had lost a good portion of its bright hue. The rain would fall hard, soon. Very soon.

"I may." Christoph stood, leaving his cup behind, and offered a hand. "With luck, I won't die in this war. And with luck, your business will pick up."

Tanner gripped his hand briefly, yet warmly. "Never count on luck, Captain. But accept it when it shows."

He'd heard those words before, somewhere. Couldn't place them, though. With little more than a nod, Christoph pushed his chair in and made for the exit. The door swung, and he stepped into the quickly dampening world.

(())

By the time Christoph reached the suburbs nearly an hour later, the storm had unleashed its full fury upon the earth. Rain drummed against the ground in a clamorous display of natural power. Visibility was poor. Very poor. Christoph couldn't see more than a hundred feet into the gloom. He wasn't dressed for the weather, either, and he was soaked. But it really didn't bother him. He had other concerns, other things on his mind.

Like what in God's name he would say to Sami, if he ran into her.

He tramped wet grass underfoot, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. He probably could've found a truck or APC to transport him back, but he still wasn't keen on company. Needed space to think.

The west was gradually brightening. A good thing, he supposed. The storm was passing. The front end was probably over Dorton City and the coast right now. Eventually it would glide up the eastern seaboard and dissipate somewhere short of Yellow Comet territory.

As he trudged onward, sloped outlines appeared from the rain. Tents. Set up some time since the battle's end. He hadn't returned to the suburbs after the town hall's destruction. He'd remained, watching and waiting for the troops to inspect the ruins. And when they'd found no one alive, he still hadn't budged. That was when the Green Earth pilot came around…

_It is useless and irrational to dwell upon the past._

Every time he mulled over Tanner's advice, it seemed more trustworthy, and Christoph told himself he'd follow it. But it didn't abate the irritation he felt towards the Green Earth prisoner. As far as he was concerned, that man was still responsible, as responsible as he.

Though his actions towards the pilot shamed even himself.

"Wrinkle!"

Christoph jerked at the voice. A soldier on the camp's outskirts, a sentry, stood ready under a tree, carbine angled worryingly in Christoph's direction. The glowing butt of a cigarette marked his position better than his silhouette, and Christoph had even missed that signal in the gloom. Regardless, he punctually met the challenge without batting an eyelid. "Bait."

The rifle lowered and the sentry took a few steps his way from his tree's poor cover. He squinted to identify Christoph. "Captain? That you?"

"Yea, it's me. I'm just getting back now."

The soldier, however, fingered his weapon's secondary handle. Like he was tempted to fire it. Chrsitoph's eyes grew a little wider. This wasn't quite the greeting he'd expected. He found the man's eyes, and recognized them. The soldier had a foreign look, maybe grandparents from Yellow Comet or some minor nation. The same soldier that'd accompanied Sami. When he'd found the pilot.

"Ah, sir-" the man stuttered the words. Like he feared something. "Are you… feeling ok?"

"Yes. Yes, I am, private," Christoph said in his most reassuring tone. Half to comfort the sentry, half to comfort himself. "Thanks for asking. I guess."

The gun relaxed. So did Christoph. "Yessir." The cigarette glowed brighter for a moment. "If I may speak frankly, sir, I believe the phrase is, 'shit happens'."

At this Christoph cracked the hint of a smile. "Indeed, private. Shit does happen."

They stood together for a moment, not saying a word. Christoph listened to the rain bounce off of the soldier's helmet. It created an interesting chaotic melody. Rather appropriate, really. It certainly matched the conditions.

"You hear about the Comets, sir?"

Christoph employed his memory. Unless the private was referring to yesterday's declaration of war, then he hadn't. "Last news I heard was the charade they pulled on the television."

The soldier didn't immediately respond. He took a drag on his cigarette, pulled it from his lips, and shot dual plumes of gray through his nose. The odor was lost in the damp air. He flicked the used butt away and stamped it out with his boot, though the action was entirely unnecessary. There was no way it could've set a bonfire.

"The bastards landed nearly a battalion under the storm's cover," he declared bitterly. "They're in Dorton."


	13. Questions

Max's ham of a fist crashed against his cell door once, twice, three times. The metal reverberated audibly in protest. He stopped, balled hand mid-air, waiting for the echoes to clear.

"Hey! Anyone out there? Hello! I don't speak Erdsprech!"

He heard faint footsteps clatter down the hall. _Finally_. Max imagined the guard was probably muttering hexes on his head, and his father's head. And his father's father's head. The day was winding down, as much as he could tell, though he couldn't tell much. The Green Earth soldier probably didn't want to have a damn thing to do with his prisoner right now.

The steps came closer, and stopped with a squeak on the polished floor outside. "Stand away from the door."

Max had already done so. He knew the routine by now. He kept his hands in sight as the slot shuttered open. A pair of eyes inspected the cell's interior.

"What do you want?" The question was beholden to a heavy accent.

Max waggled a thumb at his toilet. "Bowl's jammed. Plumbing must be all fouled up. You know, I _really_ have to go, and the food you're feeding me isn't-"

The soldier outside grunted irritably, cutting Max off. He didn't want to hear the details. Even Max didn't want to think about them, honestly. It wasn't a pleasant idea. "_Understand_." This word he pronounced with something like a sneer. Could have been his poor language skills, or a verbal indication that he was upset with Max's dilemma. Maybe both.

The slot was filled by cold metal once more, and the soldier's receding footsteps were tagged with muttered words. More curses, Max guessed. _Too bad, so sad_. Guard duty was one of the easiest positions one could fill in war, and the guy should've been grateful to have it. Hell, he wasn't even the plumber that would have to fix up the pipes.

Max shook his head as he settled on his weight on his cot. Some runts take for granted what they have.

Andy was once a runt, Max knew. At least, when he'd first met him in the Black Hole conflict, years back, that'd been his take on the young CO. But Andy didn't whine or expect special treatment. He'd turned out just fine. One of Orange Star's best, in fact. Sami was younger as well, though a bit more mature than Andy. She tackled problems as readily as Max tackled fellow pigskin players. Gave them her all. As devoted and straightforward as anyone could ask for.

Max sighed. He missed their company. _No, more than that_. He missed them. Sami's friendly and reliable nature, and Andy's fun-loving and inexperienced chatter, he missed it all. Being cooped up in his little cell was taking its toll, even if Eagle'd promised safe passage through the fighting, and safe return to Orange Star afterwards. That notion wasn't enough. He needed to _do_ something, or else he'd go stir crazy.

Which is why he'd fabricated the tale of the busted toilet.

Well, not _fabricated,_ as such. It _was _clogged, though that'd happened with a little effort on his part.

Voices returned, distracting Max from his thoughts. More than one voice, as far as he could tell. A pair. Maybe three. Wasn't positive. They grew louder and closer, speaking Erdsprech the whole while. He'd inspected the bookshelf earlier for a language dictionary, but he'd found nothing. Max wished he'd taken some foreign tongue in school. Might've been handy now. _Oh well._

The returned guard cycled through his motions, checking Max's position through the slot. Then there was a soft _clank_, and the heavy door swung effortlessly on its hinges.

Max wasn't expecting Eagle, but that was precisely the man who entered. Same old jacket, same old goggles, same old hairstyle. But not the same old Eagle.

The Green Earth Air Force commander was the same age as Max, but he looked a lot older. A helluva lot older, even compared to their last meeting. Dark rings under his eyes betrayed lack of sleep. The lines on his face had deepened. His hair wasn't in its usual faultless order; not disheveled either, but not perfect.

A tired man. A man weary of war. They'd all had a belly full of it.

And yet Eagle managed a sad smile upon his entrance, a smile that told Max even a visit with a prisoner was a liberating change of pace.

"Hello Max. How are you today?"

Max cracked his neck one way, then the other. He felt his white muscle shirt strain with the movement. For some reason it reminded him of his need for a wash. "As good as can be said, for being locked up. Yourself?"

Eagle brushed an imaginary blemish on his coat. The sad smile only grew stoic, and he laughed sardonically. "Hah. Don't be a fool. You can see easily enough." Eagle dragged the folded-up chair from its consignment against the wall, and took his place opposite Max. Every joint in his being seemed to slouch as he sat. "Even if war isn't about dying for your country, and even if it's about making the enemy die for his, I would say that killing is the more difficult of the two. And the more strenuous."

"No more glorious, either," Max added.

Eagle nodded. "True enough, Max. True enough."

The sound of their breathing filled the conversational gap. Max coughed, and adjusted his seat. The cot objected with a rusty squeal. "Well Eagle, even though it's… decent to see your mug again, I didn't know you were a plumber…"

The General's grin acquired some animation, even if his eyes remained cheerless. "You're right on that account as well. I have some skill with aircraft maintenance, but I doubt any of that could be applied to the fixing of pipes."

Max frowned. "So…"

"I know you aren't a fool, Max, as I said earlier. But neither am I. Your clogged toilet will probably be repaired with nothing more than a plunger. I do, however, commend you on your attempt at a temporary escape."

So that was it. Max's shoulders slumped. Were his efforts really so transparent? Granted, he didn't have much to work with. He didn't have _anything_ to work with. But at least he'd given it a shot. When he got out of this whole mess, he wouldn't feel guilty saying he tried.

"But," Eagle persisted, "I don't see the harm in allowing you some exercise every now and then. A walk, perhaps. My prisoners' well-being is not my foremost concern, but I won't let it be said I was inhumane."

And easily as that, Max's heart reversed its plummet. He'd gone through all that effort to cook up a half-baked plan, and it'd fallen right through, but Eagle was quite willing to let him simply waltz around and stretch his legs. With an armed escort, probably, but it was better than nothing.

What was that old saying? The one Christoph passed on every so often? _Beggars can't be choosers._

Max laughed at the memory of his battalion friend. It felt good to do it. "I guess I shoulda just asked politely, huh?" He grinned. "Sorry about the bowl. If I'd known you'd be so generous, I wouldn't have given the plumber another job to do."

But Eagle, even considering his obviously haggard state, waved it off as he would wave away a fly. "It's fine. I have a few young men free to wield a plunger. Something to build character. It's nothing close to the latrine digging you and I did in our time, but times change, don't they?"

"That they do." _Times change quickly. Two months ago, you were an ally to be respected, Eagle. Still respected now, but not an ally. Just the opposite, in fact._

The notion that either of them could be dead by the other faction's hands at any point was suddenly sobering. Painfully so.

(())

It was nearly dusk when Max was allowed out of his cell for the first time, judging by the light filtering through the hall's windows. As he crossed the door's boundary under the watchful eye of his escorts, it was as though a higher power plucked a deadweight from his shoulders and unscrewed a clamp around his head. Felt good. Felt damn good.

The corridor stretched off in both directions, but his guard herded him down the left wing. They walked, one soldier first, then Max, then the second man bringing up the rear. The hallway's various doors were all shut, and probably locked, but Max didn't dare reach out and try one. He didn't want to find out firsthand how much control the Green boys had over their trigger fingers.

They turned a corner and continued. Max glanced about, inspecting his surroundings. The building didn't have the vibe of a prison. Too… neutral. Not friendly, but not threatening. Bulletin boards were fastened to the walls, though Max couldn't get a good look at the attached sheets; his escorts moved too quickly. Probably for just that reason.

They passed several more doors, all closed. Max had a feeling they'd been set that way for his passage. Clever clever. But the final one at the end of the hall stood defiantly open. The light within shone, albeit dimly. Somehow they'd missed one, or the room was in use.

In the perfect spot, too, for the front guard had to slow as he reached the hall's terminal to push open the exit door. It gave Max the moment he needed to make a brief examination of its furnishings.

Desk. Chair. Documents. Cabinets. All white, all plastic. A small transparent container on the desk's surface. A pair of syringes.

_Syringes?_

Then it hit him. He wasn't confined in a prison. He was in a hospital. A psychiatric ward. Or some sort of mental institution.

Max had to smother the chuckle that welled up in his chest. _They probably think I'm on steroids or something! That my brain's fried to hell!_ Green Earth had set up a crazy house as the command center for its crazy little war. He shook with amusement. It was all so appropriate. The ridiculous thought presented some much needed humor.

He had to force down his mirth as the exit was held open for him. The trio left the building into the aged day. Compared to the halls, though, the exterior was only airy by virtue of a missing roof. The outdoor compound was framed by three tall, white walls arranged in a square. Each segment was topped by rather menacing barbed wire, a security measure undoubtedly meant for clear and present intimidation. It was the size of a high school gymnasium, by Max's reckoning. Strips of grass and clumps of small trees were planted sparsely. A few winding trails ringed the space, paralleled by benches here and there. Max made out the faint, white lines of an improvised baseball field.

He looked back, to the structure itself. All the windows were barred with iron from the outside. A single, dominating balcony hung over the field.

He realized that, from his position, one could see every square inch of the leisure garden. The plant life was all made up of loose branches and leaves, so that an observer could peer right through them. So that one could keep a close watch on his or her subjects.

The only things missing were the ward's patients.

"Ten minutes."

Max glanced over his shoulder. The rear guard leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other. He shifted his weapon. "Ten," he said again.

"Yea, I gotcha. Thanks." The other soldier had taken up a position out about twenty feet, one foot on a bench, gun held relaxed in both hands. Max lumbered out. The soft earth felt good, even through his boots. He passed the man from a safe distance and gave him a nod and a grin. The soldier nodded back, but spared the second gesture.

_Best make the most of my time._ Max found one of the walkways and chose to amble alongside it, keeping to the cushy ground. The soil was loose and damp, perfect for planting stuff, Max guessed, though he was no gardener. He had a hunch that the spongy dirt played another role as a cushion in case of accidents. The mentally ill had to be taken care of, after all…

The trail worked its way around the place's perimeter, lolling right next to the wall in some spots and near the center in others. All the while Max offhandedly nitpicked the imposing, white barriers. For what, he wasn't sure. Maybe his survival instincts trying to find an escape route. Well, he knew he wouldn't discover one. If there was one thing society didn't want getting out more than convicts, it was crazies.

He made the round once, then once again. The sky was dark now, only tinges of pink and the compound's lights revealing the field. Max guessed his time was almost up, and started to move towards the building proper. His sliver of freedom was expended, but it'd been better than the cell. Maybe he'd get more if he complied with his captors.

As he made for to the ward, the escorts took their same places, one in front, one behind. They marched Max through the door. The office that was previously revealed was now closed, and the trio moved onward, back in the direction of his cell. _Back to jail._

While the one office was barred to his vision, though, another was open. Max stretched his neck, trying to seem bored, and used the motion to angle his eyesight. Maybe he could get another hint in terms of his location.

A man's voice came from the office, and as they approached Max pinned the speaker as Eagle.

And he could understand the words.

He sucked at his teeth. Suddenly he was desperate to hear the conversation, to seize on talk other than his chats with Eagle. Even the man's speaking with someone else was a refreshing change of pace. He felt oddly like a man in the desert, given a glimpse of water. And he crawled for it.

Eagle apparently finished his sentence as they passed the door, and Max got a fleeting glimpse of the interior. A long conference room, the Green Earth general its sole occupant, as far as Max could tell. He held a black earpiece to his head, but it wasn't a standard desk phone. It was blockier and cordless.

_Satellite phone._

And as quickly as they'd advanced, they moved further down the hall, leaving Eagle to his business.

Max thought fast, gears turning in his head. He glanced right and left. The doors were all shut, and his guards were intent on depositing him in his cell. There was no way he could prolong his valued liberty.

But one door in particular, he mused, wouldn't be locked.

"Hey," he said, softly, as to not startle the soldiers. "Hey, I've still gotta go, if you know what I mean."

The Green in front stopped and looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Yea, you know. Bathroom. Restroom. I don't know the Erdsprech for it." He pointed to a conveniently placed door, right next to Eagle's office, an entrance marked by a triangular symbol and its obviously male figure.

"No. Not possible." The accent was still there. Max guessed they didn't really have much of a common tongue. The soldier turned away. Max was tempted to grab his shoulder, but he didn't like the possible negative outcomes of that act…

"Aw, c'mon man. I _really_ gotta go. What if my cell's not fixed yet?" Again he jabbed a finger to the restroom. Again the man shook his head, repeating his resolute statement.

"No."

"Please? You know that word? Will that work for you? I'm just short of begging. _Please._"

"What in blazes is going on out here?" That wasn't really what Eagle said, but his Erdsprech was toned in such a way that even with the language barrier, the point got across. The general poked his head through his door, a look of anger written on his face. One of the guards articulated respectfully back. Eagle's subsequent response, though, was anything but courteous. He spat an order, and shook his head in annoyance.

Then he adopted a vaguely apologetic expression and looked at Max. "Forgive my men. They're hardheaded, on occasion. You can use the facilities here." Eagle inclined his gray-topped head to the restroom, and then as quickly as he'd appeared, he was gone.

Max might've said thanks. But he figured the man was doing something important, and even for an enemy, Max didn't have it in him to bug the guy. But he was definitely satisfied. He took to a grin, though he was careful to not flaunt it.

So, with his two friends ahead and in tow, both looking more upset than they had before, Max crossed into the wonderful public lavatory. The soldiers took up random positions in the tiled room. They at least let Max alone, however, as he entered a stall and closed the door.

He sighed and sat on the lid, the plastic creaking. _Peace._ He honestly didn't have to do anything. He just wanted solace, and some time to think without a pair of eyes on him. It wouldn't be much, he knew, but he needed more than the ten minutes he'd been given outside.

But Goddamn if his 'alone time' wasn't disrupted yet again, by talk through a vent where the wall met the floor.

But Goddamn, too, if that talk wasn't Eagle's, coming from the conference room.

He leaned over, seat shifting under his weight. The words were faint, echoed and distorted through the boxed metal, but he could make them out. Still understandable. Whoever Eagle was speaking with didn't know Erdsprech, apparently.

The talk had a metallic ring to it, a byproduct of its route to Max. "…about your forces on the coast? What are they up to? … They've landed. Alright." Eagle sighed. Or Max thought he did. It was kind of hard to tell, given the circumstances.

"Yes, more bloodshed. More fighting. Was there nothing you could do to stop it? … I know, I know you're having trouble. We're all having trouble. Orange Star is having trouble. Even Olaf is trapped. He's trying to stay neutral, though of course, both sides are pressuring him to halt trade with the other."

Max clung to every eavesdropped word. If he got the notion right, then Blue Moon was staying out of the war. Good news, as far as Max was concerned. The Blue men never saw eye to eye with Orange Star.

"Our mutual friend is still on our side. I was able to communicate with him just yesterday. He's in position… yes. Yes, he's almost ready. Awaiting reinforcements, was the last I heard."

A pause. _Mutual friend? _There was no way Max would've been able to perceive the utterances from the other end of the line, but it didn't stop his imagination from running wild. Was Eagle speaking with his high command? No, then they'd be using Erdsprech. Not Blue Moon either, since he'd referred to them as a separate party. Yellow Comet? It seemed the only fitting jigsaw piece. But that conclusion only launched a new series of unanswered queries. Were the Comets in league with Green Earth? If so, why? Kanbei wouldn't go fighting a war against Orange Star, not so suddenly. Not unannounced.

He pushed the quickly branching network of questions out of the way for now, as Eagle continued his dialogue.

"I understand. Yes. I'll begin setting things in motion… Same time, tomorrow. I'll keep you updated, Sonja."

(())

Sami looked on as tanks, APCs, and all sorts of vehicles rumbled into motion. A few men ran between them, taking small risks in order to complete their assignments. Some clutched documents or papers. Others, the soldiers, rushed to join their units. Still others ran and jumped into the backs of slow-moving transport trucks. It wasn't quite bedlam, but it'd crossed into disorder. At least the drivers were all moving westerly, and seemed to be consolidating into a rough column.

But it was still a retreat.

She hated to see it. She'd promised to herself after the headquarters battle that she wouldn't give the Greens another inch. And to an extent, she hadn't. After all, the company was fleeing from Yellow Comet.

She didn't know all the details. Not yet. All she knew was the Comets had landed three companies on the eastern coast, just outside of Dorton. Just outside of Dorton's coast guard patrol range. Then they'd swept in and taken the city without so much as a few bits of foul language.

A truck revved by, kicking up wet mud and nearly splattering the stuff onto Sami's uniform. She cringed away and took a few steps back from the uneven road. Almost had it in her to yell some friendly advice to the driver, but she didn't really possess the will anymore. She was too busy blaming the weather and the enemy and herself for the fiasco that was this war.

There was nothing else to see, and no way could she organize the troops, so she made her way back to the quickly diminishing command tent. The same tent she'd set up earlier that day, for the company's officers. Now it had to be dismantled, but the process was taking a lot longer than she'd hoped.

Apparently Rachel thought so too, for she shook her head and directed one of the workers. "Let's just forget about it. It's not vital. Leave it and remove the rest of its contents." The worker obeyed, letting go of a rope and rounding the far side.

"Commander," Sami addressed her.

"Colonel." Rachel looked beat, tired, and fed up with just about everything. But something in her eyes still held her usual optimism, or nothing less than determination. Sami might've found that uplifting. But she didn't share Rachel's last bit of sanguinity.

"How'd they do it, Rachel? How'd they get to the city without our knowing? And how'd they best our estimates of how many troops they carried?"

"Timing, craftiness, and a dash of luck." The ends of her mouth turned down, like the event only mildly disappointed her. "It's patent they know about our satellite problem. Their landing was synchronized too well for it to be coincidence." She shifted her weight and rotated one shoulder, wincing with pain.

"How's your leg healing?"

"It's fine. My arm is what bothers me the most right now. I never thought crutches would be so… exasperating. No no, I told the other man, we're leaving the tent!" Rachel looked away from Sami to instruct another worker, who was pulling stakes from the mud.

_That's our general, taking things nice and easy, even in the face of overwhelming odds._

"Commander Rachel." Both Sami and the CG redirected their attention. Sami frowned to see Christoph approaching. The Captain's dark hair was plastered to his head, and his uniform was soaked. Sami guessed he'd walked his way back through the rain. While Rachel and she were tired and burned, Christoph looked angry. The bridge of his nose was folded up.

"Ah, Captain. We missed your presence." _Hardly._ Sami hadn't said anything to Rachel about the incident. And she didn't intend to. There was no reason to trouble the CG over the relatively minor circumstance. Minor to the maker of strategic decisions, anyway. It wouldn't look good for her subordinates to be quarreling with one another. "I wanted to congratulate you on an outstanding job well done. Driving back Green Earth gave us a leg to stand on."

"Thank you, Commander." His brown eyes flickered to Sami, for a pithy moment. They did not bear the anger his expression did. Not quite. "Ma'am, what's the situation?" he asked, looking at Rachel again. "I'm afraid I was absent, if we held a briefing."

Rachel took a long, slow breath. The _situation_ had broken Christoph's gains. The leg Orange Star had propped up was knocked right out from under it with Yellow Comet's landing. Sami wasn't keen on experiencing Christoph's response to that news firsthand, but what could she do? Excuse herself politely?

"I'm afraid things aren't going according to plan," the CG said.

_Understatement of the year._

The space above Christoph's nose folded even more. "I heard about the Comets, but it was from a private. It's true, then? They've captured Dorton City?"

"Yes. It's true, and very, very serious."

Sami examined Christoph. He did nothing, at first. His Adam's apple rose and fell. Then he wiped his forehead with his damp sleeve, leaving behind more wet that it'd taken away. "So we're retreating." It wasn't a question.

"That's correct. Yellow Comet was able to take us by surprise, because we no longer have orbital surveillance. Our satellites are being destroyed. I'll explain it all later, but for now, we've got to pack up and get moving. We're heading west."

Now Sami spoke. Anything beyond this was new to her. "You informed me of our retreat, Rachel, but not the destination. What's our goal here?"

"I've contacted Major Kullins. He commands Charlie and Echo companies, and they're in the process of fortifying Withersburg. Our forces, one company's worth, will be linking up with him, as we planned. Dorton Air Force Base relocated what it could. One wing of aircraft, total. The rest weren't fueled or ready in time…"

"And Bravo company?" Christoph asked, his voice strained.

A muscle twitched in Rachel's face. "They're dug in, fighting with Green Earth and some small Yellow Comet elements from the north. Those men are receiving the brunt of it. Holding off the enemy until Major Kullins can consolidate his forces."

Sami didn't know this Kullins guy at all, but from her point of view, the man was squandering a considerable portion of what forces were available in southern Omega Land. Withersburg? Withersburg wasn't strategically important. It was far from the Green Earth lines and farther still from Fort Iams. "Why in the hell did he take the city?" she grumbled.

"I'll be frank, I have no clue. He executes my orders but dives around my questions. I'd be tempted to replace him, but he's got more experience than all of us combined. Even someone in my position finds it hard to argue with that. He has connections, too."

Christoph spat in the dirt. "Fucking politics. 'Scuse my language, ma'am."

But Rachel merely yawned and balled a fist into one eye. "It's fine Captain. I don't expect _sassafras_ to suffice for venting steam. We're all adults here, and we're all stressed."

_Some of us more than others._

"Commander!" It was the third time in as many minutes someone called for Rachel. Sami watched her close her eyes and groan softly, her lips moving to reiterate Christoph's obscenity. Sami could relate to that, the burden of command. It was a heavy load.

A man moved to speak with Rachel, but Sami got the first word in. "You want me to deal with this, Commander? You look like you could use a rest."

Rachel waved her off. "No. You two need the breather more than I, for what you did here today. This leg's given me an excuse to be pampered." Then she winked and hobbled away with the newly arrived soldier, out of earshot.

It was suddenly very quiet. The movement of troops, of squelching boots and grinding gears, did nothing to cement the acoustic gap closed. Sami glanced sidelong at Christoph. He looked despondent, standing there in his drenched uniform. Rachel's intelligence probably only dumped more misery on him. _I can relate to that too. I've known that feeling. I've borne the remorse of catastrophic failures. It's attended my thoughts too many times, and I know the only way to cope with it is through repetition. Through self-conditioning._ She should've said something to him, maybe. Should've been the better person, and passed over their argument. People say stupid things. People say insensitive things.

But the words did not come when beckoned. In fact, it was Christoph that opened his mouth to start.

"Sami, I-"

"_Damn it!_"

Their necks wrenched, and Sami was very surprised to find it was Rachel who'd cursed. She'd never heard the mild-mannered girl spur a single profane utterance. Not once. The CG's knuckles were white around a crushed paper. Her teeth were bared and set, eyes pressed shut.

Sami's throat knotted. Ice crystallized in her stomach. That sort of reaction from Rachel? _Not good. Not good at all._

"The nerve! The _nerve_ of that man!" Rachel flung the paper, though her crutches impeded the throw's force. It landed gently in the mud without a sound. Rachel didn't seem to care, for she wobbled round. "Kullins. He… he _defies_ me! Openly! Didn't even bother to hide it this time!"

_What's this feeling? Fear? Am I really afraid to ask Rachel a question? _That was a first. Rachel wasn't normally a superior one was terrified of. But for a brief second, Sami was. Utterly terrified. By the look on Christoph's face, he was too. "What's… what's he doing?"

Rachel picked off her cap and dragged her other hand through her hair. "Being insubordinate, is what! You know what he said? He wrote that he 'respectfully disagrees' with my decisions and has taken matters into his own hands!"

_Holy hell. Sounds more like treason._ "What orders?"

Those blue eyes were sharp. Fuming. Not like Rachel at all. Kullins must've screwed up pretty bad. "He's set Bravo Company on a lone drive for Calciki, without support. Armor and artillery. That's it."

Christoph gawked. "_What?_ Why… why would he…"

"He feels it _imperative_ that we reach Withersburg. That Bravo _believably distract_ Green Earth and Yellow Comet, so that we may slip by unhindered. He's sending them into a deathtrap! A meat grinder!" She almost threw her hat as well, but forwent the final release. It just looked like she was waving it about angrily.

This conduct from Rachel might've been disturbing, if Major Kullins' actions weren't even more so. Sami could hardly trust her ears. A vein throbbed painfully in her neck. She snapped off her sweatband and wiped her brow. The Major's decision was grounds for an immediate court-martial. _So what the fuck is running through his mind?_

She looked over. Christoph's eyes were wide. Bravo was his body, his buddies. No doubt he had friends there.

Then the issue in front of them gave way to a new concern in Sami's mind. If Christoph's treatment of the Green Earth soldier wasn't evidence enough, Sami was no longer certain the Captain would hold up anymore. There was no telling if he'd snap, or how, or when. And damn it all, since she'd refused to tell Rachel, the responsibility for keeping an eye on him lay with her.

Though she was probably the worst person for the job.


	14. Sunset

_Hello all! I'm back from my semester abroad, and yes, it was great. As promised, work has continued on _A War Apart_. Unfortunately, I didn't have much time to write in China, so I only have about 5,000 words worth of updates, for now. Progress might be a little slow this summer._

_One quick note: apparently sometime over the last four months, FanFiction decided it didn't like my asterisks that I used as separators. As a result, in all previous chapters, shifts in point of view are very abrupt with no markers. I'm working to replace all instances of my traditional **** with (())._

_Thank you for sticking through!_

(())

"3rd platoon, on me. Let's go, gather 'round, don't be shy. You all know Uncle Lee." Sepp plopped down on a busted stone wall, worn over the decades. Rocky, but better than the mud. The wall was one of the last remnants of an old family farm, on the fringes of the 3rd's forested basecamp.

A few uneasy laughs followed. The men did as he said, and made a rough circle around him. Some squatted, some remained standing. It was a pitiful crowd. Fifteen tankers and Sepp, all told. Enough to crew four Oberons. Might've been an average size for an average platoon, but the 3rd Armored wasn't average. Sepp had prided himself in being part of the only fifteen-tank platoon in the company, at one time. Now that pride was dashed, gone with the eleven dead Oberons. And their men.

He looked at the faces surrounding him. Slack, impassive. Those short barks of laughter had faded. No one was ready for their presented task, and Sepp could relate. He wasn't ready for it either. _Fucking Kullins_.

But he tried a grin anyway. It felt plastered and false. Probably 'cause it was.

"Aight," he began, keeping his voice steady. "I'm sure you boys've heard the news. We've got our orders, straight from the Major." A few boos and hisses. Seemed Kullins' flagging popularity extended to the enlisted men. Sepp nodded in agreement. "I know, I know. That old bastard don't know his head from his ass, and we're not keen on listening. But the man's a Major for a reason, and we gotta carry out his orders, even if we don't respect 'em."

No one argued. The boys knew their place, after all. They were the grunts, men told what to do by bigger men with pockets full of medals. And they were told what to do by even bigger men, who were told what to do by men in suits. Didn't really make a whole lotta sense, but that was how the world worked, Sepp figured.

"I met with our acting Captain earlier, too."

"_Cold bitch,_" someone muttered.

Sepp paused. A couple days ago he might've agreed. Roma wasn't really someone you could call a friend. More an acquaintance, an associate, a professional colleague. She always had her career first in mind. But his talk with her yesterday had pried a little bit of warmth outta her. And maybe a little warmth back.

Still, it wouldn't do for the men to see Lieutenant Lee going soft. He looked over one shoulder, then the other. Then he leaned in close. "I'd throw my lot in with you, but the woman's got a hawk's eyes and a hound's ears. Can't get a thing past her."

Snickering. It was a poor joke, not even that funny. But the men needed something to help their spirits.

"And between you all and me, even she's up in arms about this. But she's a soldier like all of us, just with a couple more stripes on her shoulders. So she's following through." He grunted to clear stuff from his throat and leaned back, hands gripping his knees. "You all know what we're doing. We're driving for Calciki. One company, Bravo alone. We've got our tanks, an' our artillery, an' some anti-air batteries. No air support, but since when have we needed those flyboys?"

It was a rhetorical question, but a couple 'nevers' came back. Made Sepp's grin feel a bit more real.

"We're gonna move across the plains hard and fast. We'll close on Calciki two days from now. The terrain's a bit more hilly there, so the Greens and Comets won't have easy shots to take. Omega Land is on our side, in this war. Once we're into the outskirts, the famed Green Earth air force won't count for shit." _If we make it that far._

"Fuckin' Eagle!" came a curse.

Sepp nodded again. "Major Kullins probably doesn't expect this assault to roll very far. He's usin' us as a distraction, so the CG's company and a half and Dorton's aircraft can sneak by to the south." Sepp bobbed his head, rounding his listeners. "Now, I'm ready to give everything I got, so that the CG can link up with Kullins and slap the fuckin' helium outta his ballooning ego. I'm ready to crack some Greens' skulls and send Comets home in caskets, _at the very least_ so that the General an' Colonel Sami can kick the Major's ass." His voice rose at the thought. Even his own speech was getting to him, making him feel giddy. "I'm ready to drive right up to the Green Earth lines, throw 'em a nice big _fuck you_ and plant a tank shell between Eagle's eyes." Sepp widened his grin. "And, of course, for king and country, and all that stuff." _For king and country. Too bad we don't have a king, else that line'd work better._ But his crew didn't seem to care.

"Hell yea!"

"Fuckin' Kullins!"

"Comets in caskets!"

The men were riled up now, half because of Sepp's cajoling, half on their own. They needed something to distract them. Sepp wouldn't have minded a distraction too, but it wasn't his job to be distracted. He had to focus on the mission at hand. It wasn't easy, accepting that a good number of the men in front of him were going be dead in a few days. Maybe half. But he tried to console himself with the knowledge that it was necessary. Fuel was starting to run dry, and Kullins' two companies had the lion's share. Kilo needed that fuel.

"We're moving out tomorrow morning, 0800. I want everyone up by 0500, and ready by 0530. We're gonna make the distance and engage the next day, at just the right time. So that Fort Iams' troops can go by unhindered." He made another visual pass over his soldiers. "Everyone got it?"

Nods and yessirs. The fervor had cooled, but the idea had been planted. His men, once under Christoph's command and now under his, were as ready as they would ever be. They'd fight with everything they had, even if it meant their deaths. _Goddamned Kullins._

"Alright, good. Go get some chow, or find a magazine. Relax a bit. You all've earned it." _And you might not get the chance again._

With the informal dismissal, his fifteen men dispersed, going off on their own or in pairs and groups. That left only Sepp. He remained, sitting on his stony bench, fingers still wrapped to his knees. He watched the tankers disappear around armor and into crowds. Then he looked at his hands. They shook, very slightly. So imperceptibly that even he hadn't noticed. Meant the men probably hadn't either, thank God. He was scared, as scared as he'd ever been in the last war. He could be dead in two days. He could've been dead at any time, he supposed, from the business end of an airstrike or a rogue tank round, but those were always invisible threats. This suicide mission was very real, all too real.

He looked up, trying to think of something to do. They had over twelve hours until the exercise began.

_Comets in caskets. Who knows, maybe it'll become a catchphrase?_

(())

The sunset was the color of bad blood. A medium reddish orange, the sickly life of a dying old man. The clouds hung low, cutting the horizon sky with strips of pink, so much like torn flesh. It was beautifully fitting end to the day, but its similarity to death robbed some of its splendor.

Christoph watched the sinking sun. Somewhere, miles away to the north, Bravo Company was preparing to die for an uppity man with a gasbag for a head. Soldiers preparing for their ends under such a view. He found it an apt display. Finally, it all made sense. Terrible, terrible sense.

It'd taken two wars for him to properly understand the nature of conflict, to understand why men would pick up weapons and kill their brothers, just because they wore a different color and carried a different flag. Two wars and countless deaths for the devastatingly obvious answer to reveal itself.

If there was a God, He thrived on chaos.

This time the rumbling of his tank did not drag him from the truth. The jostling of the treads only rocked his body, not his mind. He remained steadfast in his final comprehension.

Tomorrow Bravo would move, per Major Kullins' orders. The day after that they would engage Calciki's defense forces, and at the same time, Christoph's company would mosey south under the cover of their dying and their dead.

His conclusion was the only rational explanation for such injustice.

A broken transmission crackled in his ears. Sami. "Heads up Captain, pair of Strikewinds inbound. Don't let them startle you, looks like they're just on patrol."

"Understood." He looked up in anticipation. Not two heartbeats later, a low roar caught up the air, beginning as a hum that could've been from any Oberon's turbine. The roar grew louder, and louder still, its orientation impossible to determine. Then, just as the noise defeated Christoph's helmeted earphones, two blurred shapes sheared the sky in half with swords of white.

Necks swiveled in unison with the spectacle, but there was no machine gun fire. To hit jet aircraft with infantry weapons was unlikely and any attempt was a waste of ammunition. A waste that, right now, Christoph was unwilling to tolerate.

He flicked to the wide channel and addressed his company. "Hold your nerves, they're just taking a look. I don't want any potshots." Strikewinds. Green Earth's air superiority fighter. Masters of the sky, just as the Lightning was lord of the earth. The aircraft shrunk until they were two black dots in the distance, before they arced east and made their way north again, far off. Over the Yellow Comet vanguard, perhaps.

The column rolled on. There was little to do, and little to see. The countryside was sparsely populated. What remote towns Christoph spotted looked void of life. No cars glinting or rush hour shuffling. Most of the locals had abandoned their homes during either the Von Bolt war or this new conflict. It certainly shone light upon the preconceived idea that democracies did not go to war with democracies. Green Earth was evidence to the contrary. And even if the enemy was a relatively free country, Orange Star citizens had no wish to change allegiance under duress.

The radio started again. "I don't think any more are coming, Captain. You can rest easy."

_I am resting easy. _He couldn't help but think that Sami was babysitting his every move. If that was the case, it was starting to irk him. "Thank you, Colonel. Give the tankmen some credit. We don't go shooting people for no good reason."

No retort. Even Sami, soldier for life, didn't follow up with the proper _over and out_. Maybe he'd batted her off. Maybe she'd let him alone.

Maybe he'd never have to apologize for what he did. The idea of doing so seemed… _base_. Simpleton. No, he was wiser now. The period between the town hall's destruction and the Rachel 's arrival had confused him. Now he saw clear. He'd fought his way through the murk and into the light, and it was cold.

(())

She didn't leave him alone.

The column had come to a halt at around midnight. It wasn't much more than a piss break, really. Soldiers could eat and drink on the move, but emptying bladders was more difficult.

As Christoph leaned against his new command tank, he saw Sami walk between the parked vehicles, first recognizing her as she strode by the dim glow of portable heaters. Groups of soldiers lazed around them. It wasn't a chilly night, but cooler than most. They saluted and she saluted back. Everyone knew Lieutenant Colonel Sami. Everyone knew the legend. Christoph a little better than most, and as she approached, he frowned. He looked away, into the woods, in the fool's hope she'd walk right past.

She came within a few feet and halted. Not close enough for a social chat. He pretended to examine something in the trees. It was pretty clear that she intended to speak with him, but he did it anyway. Out of spite, maybe.

No, not spite. Shame.

"Captain."

"Colonel." Seemed they were done with personal names.

"How are you this evening?"

"Good as can be said."

There was a gap. Only the groaning of turbines. The Oberons still idled; firing them from a cold start guzzled fuel, and fuel was in short supply.

"Captain, I wanted to talk with you."

Finally, he looked at her. She was frowning. He winced, hoped she didn't see. _Base and simpleton, huh? Old habits die hard_. "Well, we don't have all night. I want to be moving within fifteen minutes."

"This won't take long." And yet she stopped again. She might've clenched a fist, Christoph could hardly tell in the dusk. If she planned to strike him, he probably deserved it. Even if he was right. Even if she was conflicted in fighting Eagle's forces. Sure, he'd been conflicted too, for his own reasons. But his inner battle was over.

"We need to know if we can count on you, Christoph."

"We?"

"The CG and I. Mostly me." She fidgeted with her white wristband, the piece transplanted from her old outfit to her new fatigues. "I don't want anyone doing anything rash. We only have so many able-bodied officers available. And we're shorthanded on captains."

He chewed at his lip. This wasn't unexpected. "We don't have much a choice, do we? You said it yourself, we're shorthanded. Who would replace me if you or Rachel deemed it necessary? Jake isn't in any condition to man an Oberon, and unless you've got another captain in your pockets somewhere, our options are limited."

Her frown deepened. "I could do the job. I might be infantry but I've commanded armor before, at least from an APC. I don't want to do that, though. It's not as effective as having a man in the field. The losses would be higher. But what I need to know is if we'd save lives under your watch."

Christoph just looked at her for the longest time, absorbing her words and weighing them. Judging their worth. He couldn't decide if Sami deserved compensation. And even if she did, even if he owed her, was that debt to be paid by submitting to her experience? She felt it was risky keeping him in charge of the company, that much was obvious. And yet, appeasement was always a mixed policy to assume…

"There's no need," he said. "I believe I'm fit for command. You can tell the CG I haven't been compromised," he said as he looked away, into the woods once again. "In those words, if you want."

He didn't see her reaction. He didn't want to. Damn it, why did he have to say it that way? But it was done. The gap between them was widening at a rapid pace.

And yet, for some reason, he didn't find it as bothersome as he should've. Before he might have bit his tongue and mumbled an apology. Now it struck him as trivial.

"Alright, then. Fifteen minutes, you said?"

"Huh?"

"Fifteen. You wanted to be gone in fifteen." She glanced back at the company's tankers. "Think we should get ready? Doesn't look like they're budging anytime soon."

Christoph's lip twisted invisibly in the dark. "They'll be ready. They'll snap to it when I tell them to."

The spitting nature of his retort was lost to Sami. Or she just ignored it. She nodded and turned away. "Alright Captain. The CG trusts you," she said over her shoulder as she retraced her steps through the lazing soldiers, "The CG trusts you."

Christoph couldn't help but notice that last comment. The CG. Not Sami. If it was a blow meant to hurt, he shrugged it off. Hard words, hardly cloaked. But hard words never did anyone any good.

_Why, just look at me._


	15. Dawn

Nell was obliged to give the Air Force some credit. They had gone above and beyond the call of duty this time. Even considering the pressing need, their progress had been quick. Very quick. One week since Yellow Comet had captured Dorton City. One week since her sister's company had been forced to retreat. One week since the satellites had begun winking out of the night sky. And now, the Air Force had a working ASAT missile.

And not an hour too soon.

She watched the preparations on the command center's main monitor, cool and calm on the outside, and none too patient within. A small army of onscreen technicians, a hundred miles away, swarmed around elongated gray tube, checklists and tools clutched in tense hands. The weapon looked standard, but looks were often deceiving. The object of their attention wasn't simply another air-to-air missile being readied for another simple operation. That cold, metal thing was everything to Orange Star and more.

For if it failed, they would be blind to everything east and west of Withersburg.

Nell folded her arms, the urge to drum her fingers very present. She turned it away. It wouldn't reassure her staff to see their Commander-in-Chief's fraying nerves.

"How is it progressing?" she asked in what she hoped was a steady tone.

The seated, bespectacled man to her left squinted at his computer, cheeks flexing in thought. "They're almost ready. They only have to run through a final check, and then secure it to the Foxfire."

_A final check, hm? How many checks have they gone through? Three? Four?_ The ends of her mouth turned down in mild annoyance. Of course, they could afford no mistakes. Redundancy was essential for such a delicate operation. Indeed, necessary for all practices of war. This one especially so.

"And our target? Is it still following its predicted path?"

The man nodded. "Yes, no changes. It will meet HK-12-3 five hours from now." He wrung his shoulders and clicked his tongue. "That is, if our toy fails. With any luck, it'll work like a charm."

Luck. She hated to admit it, but his words held the truth. Much of war came down to luck. Nell certainly knew that better than most. She apparently had something of a reputation for her good fortune among the Army's senior officers…

The man spoke again, pointing at his personal screen. "Looks like they're done." Nell did not follow his gesture, instead returning her eyes to the front of the room. Sure enough, the technicians were filing away, taking their tools and papers with them. Four able-bodied, camo-clad men replaced them and took up positions around the missile's cart, one on either side and two at the back. They began to push it away, out of the hanger, and into the light of day.

The footage shifted to a different camera, positioned outside, picture following the entourage as it rolled across the concrete runway. The airbase staff had properly set up the cameras after all, fulfilling Nell's request for a firsthand view of the operation. The cameras weren't really necessary, to be honest. She was powerless, a hundred miles from Teldoro without the means to aid the mission. But she thought it might soothe her troubled mind if she watched the proceedings as they unfolded. Maybe some of her luck would rub off. Maybe if she witnessed the ASAT's launch, she would somehow shore up its abysmal failure rate.

_A woman has to hope, right?_

The four men and their escorted device came to a halt under the wing of a cloud-gray air force jet, the nation's orange and yellow flag decorating its tail fins. A Foxfire. Orange Star's interceptor, originally developed for meeting and engaging long-range bombers. It was a machine capable of extreme speeds and high altitudes, both of which were necessary for the task at hand: the elimination of an enemy killsat, a target that threatened to destroy yet another Orange Star surveillance satellite. The aircraft itself certainly looked smooth and streamlined to Nell, and she hoped it could execute its charge flawlessly.

The four men did not work as a team to affix the missile. They did not grasp and heave it on the count of three. They simply ensured it was parallel with the plane's fuselage, and one of them fiddled with a control panel on the cart's back end. The missile's bed slowly rose into the air, crossed supports extending under artificial power, until the gray weapon was nestled snugly in the Foxfire's wing cache. The soldiers ensured it was secure, checking once, twice, three times, before the bed fell away and they rolled the cart back from whence it came, leaving the cold missile hanging from its new berth.

Nell became aware that several sets of eyes were watching her. Waiting for her word. She blinked and stroked her cheek thoughtfully, as though seriously contemplating whether or not to give the go-ahead. Of course, the decision was foregone. There _was_ no decision. It had to be done.

"Alright. Let them loose."

"Yes ma'am." A few rows down, one of her staff fingered his headphone mic. "Teldoro Base, you are good to go. Repeat, you are good to go. Cinc has given the a green light."

The response came in sharp through overhead loudspeakers. "Roger Command, confirmed, we're good. Setting our boy for his trip skywards. Teldoro out."

Nell puffed out her cheeks as the speakers crackled silent. The first and simplest hurdle was cleared. It had been all too likely that they would find something wrong with the ASAT missile, a wire out of place or poorly written programming. There had been problems with it in the past, enough to put the project on indefinite hiatus.

But the hurdles that remained were undoubtedly more imposing.

The Foxfire wheeled away from the hanger and taxied across the airstrip under the guidance of a pair of ground support crewmen. They waved their bright sticks in incomprehensible patterns, a secret language known only to a privileged few, pilot included. After some distance the aircraft slowed, turned, and coasted to a stop, nosecone angled in tandem with the runway. All was ready, all was set. Now the waiting game.

"How long until our pilot can take off?"

"Four or five minutes, ma'am. Any earlier and he'll miss the window."

Nell pursed her lips in thought. Five minutes. The pilot's system checks would require one or two of those minutes. That left three, time that he would spend idle. And an idle mind before a mission, any mission, is like an open wound. Liable to fester. She knew as well as any the sorts of thoughts one pondered when given the chance, especially when under pressure.

Maybe she could help.

"Would I have time to speak with him directly?"

Her attendant cocked his head. "Ma'am?"

But she did not wait for a proper answer. "Patch me through," she said, reaching for her headset, "And quickly. He still has systems to check."

"Well, yes, but-"

She held up one hand, cutting him off, and used the other to removed her hat and crown her headphones. "I know, it's irregular. But I give orders, not reasons."

The man said nothing, only lifting an eyebrow. Then he turned to his console. His fingers tapped across the keyboard, and after a few moments, he nodded. "Alright ma'am, you're through."

"Thank you." Nell sucked her gums while withdrawing a few choice words of wisdom from her mental bank. Normally this sort of thing was discouraged. Normally, a member of the brass was not to speak with the grunts, lest she foster anxiety. The weight of responsibility was a heavy one, a weight Nell was well acquainted with. To add more to a soldier's conscience was a risk.

But she could damn the rules just one time. And for good reason.

She shifted the headphones until they fit comfortably over her ears. "Good day soldier. Can I have your name?"

A moment of silence, then, "Captain Brint, ma'am."

"Alright, Captain Brint. Do you know who you're speaking with?"

Another pause. "I do not, ma'am."

Nell cracked a smirk, almost savoring the moment. "This is Commander Nell. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"Yes'm, I have. Don't believe we've spoken, though."

_Not fazed in the slightest. Steady nerves, a good sign._ "I don't believe we have either, but I wanted to take the opportunity, Captain." _And I'll be damned if I sit around without contributing something._ "I'm sure you understand your mission today. I've had several members of my staff reassure me that you're the man for the job. But there's nothing quite like a personal interview, in my opinion."

She thought she heard a preamble of flicking switches, Brint going through practiced motions and checking his machine. "I would agree with you, ma'am, and if I may say so, I'd say there's nothing quite like a personal interview with Orange Star's Commander-in-Chief."

_Capable of multitasking. Keeps a cool head in conversation with superiors. Two for two._ "Fair enough." She cracked her knuckles, carefully formulating her words. "Now, Captain, your superiors have undoubtedly impressed upon you the importance of our efforts today. The success or failure of these ASAT missiles will, regrettably, be influenced by fortune. However, this only means that those variables under our control should be supported by the best minds, the best equipment, and the best men available."

"I agree, ma'am. And if I can put a good word in for myself, there's no man better."

"Excellent. That's precisely the question I was going to ask." She looked to her left, and her companion held up one finger. "Captain, have you ever been entrusted with a specialty mission before?"

"Yes ma'am. Second Black Hole war, my flight did some long-range airstrikes deep into enemy territory. Low to the ground, skimming under the radar, that sort of stuff."

"So you're familiar with unorthodox objectives, then?"

"As familiar as anyone, ma'am."

_Experienced. Three for three. All the more reason to trust my men._ "This is all good to hear, Captain Brint. I just wanted to be the first to thank you for your willingness to fly today."

There was a short bark of laughter. "My Colonel says if I don't screw this up, I can retire next year. So there's some incentive in it for me," Brint said.

Nell found her smirk returning. "I hope you get the chance. At the very least, we'll all deserve a vacation when this is over." Her staff member signaled again – three fingers and a fist. Enough time to wrap up. "Well Captain, I've enjoyed our little chat, but I'm afraid we'll have to cut it short. You've preparations to make. Good luck, and Godspeed."

"Thank you, ma'am. If you've got the luck and my plane's got the speed, this whole thing'll be a cake walk."

A soft click, and Nell untangled her headset from her hair. The technician sighed almost silently, just short of irritation. Perhaps he was a stickler for procedure. Not that his opinion mattered, in terms of her little deviation. If he didn't like it he could find another post.

The remaining seconds passed in the tight air, the tension almost tangible. Nell's staff members weren't the only ones feeling the pressure, either. In the end, the responsibility for this mission's outcome rested with her. She was the one who had authorized the reactivation of the ASAT program. She was the one everyone would look to if this failed. Or succeeded, for that matter.

"Teldoro reports they're all set," said the man a few rows down. "Clearing the runway now."

Nell watched, and sure enough, man and machine started filing off of the tarmac, taking up spectators' spots in hangers and buildings. The engineers' jobs were done. The technicians' tools were exhausted of their use. Now it was all up to the pilot himself and the men and women in the control tower.

God, she felt so _powerless_.

"Systems are green, pilot's given the thumbs up."

Slowly, agonizingly, the Foxfire's wheels rolled into motion, propelling the aircraft down the runway only inches at a time. Its wingslats angled into position, thrusters shifted in and out. Then it started to gather speed, and the inches became feet, which became yards. Now the tarmac was sliding under the aircraft's tires ever faster, the wingslats angling for takeoff-

And like that it was in the air.

Nell watched the distant screen, eyes fixed on the even more distant gray machine that began its climb. It had to reach a high altitude, but the Foxfire's performance was not in question. It was the weapon strapped to its wing that was the uncertainty, the variable in this experiment in warfare.

"How long will the ascent be?"

"A few minutes, no longer," answered the technician.

More minutes of waiting, then. Nell chewed her lower lip, folded her arms. She was being fidgety, and she knew it. _Don't let them see your nerves. Orange Star's Commander in Chief, nervous? That wouldn't bode well._ But it was hard to help. A good portion of their hopes rested with this one operation. If it didn't work… well, they could still continue, but it would be much more difficult. Riskier.

Time ticked by. If Nell had a watch, she would have checked it several times over already. Maybe it was a fortunate thing she didn't. The display shifted to the Foxfire's cockpit view, just over Brint's shoulder, now that it was well out of range of the ground cameras. The screen turned brighter as the jet ascended, made it through the clouds. Then it passed above them, and everything was a brilliant sky blue.

The pilot tapped a few switches on his control panel. Then his muffled voice came through the speakers. "Going afterburn."

There was no drastic change in the picture. It trembled, but that was all. Any experienced pilot could tell that the Foxfire was injecting straight fuel into the pipe, the maneuver known as afterburning. It didn't last long. Just enough so that the sky faded to a straight blue, then a shade of royal. More like twilight than anything else, even though it was still midday over Teldoro.

"Approaching optimal altitude."

This was arguably the most crucial step in the process: the launch itself and immediately after. This was when the failure rate was highest, when the ASATs had the highest propensity for exploding under their aircraft's nose.

The screen halted its dance. For a moment, the picture was rather serene. Just a deep blue, seen through a crystal clear window.

"Missile away!"

A streak of light – and that was all. The pilot maneuvered his aircraft to a more level plain, the video only catching a glimpse of a white plume rocketing off into the wild blue. Then it vanished off-camera as the Foxfire turned away.

The command center's display was useless now, and it flickered off. The pilot's job was done. Captain Brint now resided with the likes of Nell, utterly powerless in the grand scheme of things. Nell looked to her technician. He would supply the information.

"Readings are steady… not perfect, but steady." He met Nell's eyes for a moment. "But it's alright. These sorts of numbers are expected, especially from an untested machine." He ventured a smile, but it was a weak gesture. Trying to reassure his boss, maybe, or protect his job if the whole thing went wrong.

"Just the facts, if you would," she said.

"Er… right you are, Commander." He returned to his computer, looking for all the world like it was the most important thing in his life. Because it was.

_So much waiting._ Some part of her wanted it to be finished, success or failure, an irrational corner of her human mind that she stifled as soon as it cropped up. _Nine-tenths of war is waiting. I can wait a few moments longer._

"Weapon is nearing low earth orbit."

But what if it failed? What then? Would they go through with their plans, even if the entirety of Omega Land was devoid of satellite surveillance? Or would the men upstairs – above even her – decide that Calciki wasn't worth more lives? Would they throw in the towel? Sue for peace?

"Sixty kilometers from target."

Or would they choose the opposite course? Commit more forces to the fight? Resign more men to their deaths in defense of an undefined objective? Would Nell even be able to do that, if it were her decision? All those people…

"Thirty."

Of course, there was a darker path. If it was decided by the suits in the Central Office that initiative needed to be regained, that Orange Star's forces were faltering, there were other options. Nonconventional options. Such actions could escalate far beyond anyone's control. God, she hoped it didn't come to that.

"Weapon has met the target's position. Updating radar…"

Nell glanced between the tech and the useless, blank screen, hoping for any information at all. There was nothing to see, nothing tangible to hold onto. Her fingers gripped her arms, nails dug into the fabric. She struggled to maintain her composure. When would they know? Would it be now? Would it be now? Would it be-

"That's confirmed! Confirmed. Weapon has taken out the killsat." Someone breathed loudly in relief. Herself, she realized. Her arms fell to her sides, almost slack, but she kept her shoulders straight. Even in victory. The tech's fingers clattered on his keyboard. "Not a clean hit but enough to take it offline. It's out of its orbital path." The tech looked back up to Nell, and this time his smile very genuine.

She was smiling down at him too, and she swept her cap off, brushing one sleeve against her forehead. "Good work everyone," she said, glancing about the room. Some smiles answered. Most of them, those that didn't understand the full implications of what had just transpired, only looked mildly pleased. It had worked. Thank God, it had _worked._ It might not work again, and the killsats' controllers could probably send another their way, but it had worked this once. The success had given them enough time. Just enough time.

She turned, snatching up her briefcase and making for the exit. She had to inform the right people, set their forces into motion. The ASAT worked like a charm, but there was still more to be done. Much more.

Still, she couldn't help her smile as she exited the room.


	16. Team Whiskey

Wind whipped through the Reynault's troop compartment, sending Sami's hair flying about in mockery of her headband. She'd given up taming it long ago. It would just have to be fixed after they landed. The engines vibrated behind her, the rotors whirled overhead. She fingered her seat straps as she looked out the chopper's yawning side door, down to the plains and fields sliding by, watching the Reynault's shadow zip over the landscape. Withersburg's outskirts. Mostly farmland, out here. Withersburg itself wasn't much of a city, maybe sixty thousand people all told. The population might have actually swelled, though. It was just about the furthest urban area from the brunt of the fighting, and it happened to house Major Kullins' forces, so more refugees poured in every day.

_Refugees. In Orange Star_. The thought nearly made her start, breaking her gaze upon the flat land beneath. The notion that Orange Star citizens were refugees, and not as a result of Black Hole aggression, was sobering. She brushed her flying hair from her face and looked to the cabin's interior, at her companions. Not too many. Just a handful of soldiers, as well as a couple of Rachel's clerks that hadn't gone with the CG when she'd traveled to the city ahead of Team Kilo.

Zhang was there too, just opposite Sami. After the Battle of Loch Haven she'd requested him as her personal guard. He was competent, reliable, level-headed, everything a self-respecting CO needed. It'd been a while since she'd had a guard, to be honest. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd decided to pick one up now. She reached out, tapped him on the arm, and his Kevlar helmet whirled around. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better. There was no way any conversation could happen here. Instead she tapped her wrist and cocked her head.

Zhang nodded, leaned over to the gap between the cabin and the pilot's bubble. He exchanged a few shouted words, obliterated by the rushing wind and whipping rotors. Another nod, and he leaned back, holding up three fingers.

Sami had no idea what that meant. Three minutes or three hours? That all depended on where they were headed. She wasn't sure where Kullins had set up base camp. Probably somewhere deep in the city proper, though she hoped that wasn't the case. She wanted to put her feet on the ground, feel something solid beneath them. Nothing was solid anymore, not even those things one normally takes for granted.

Before long, though, the farmlands below became suburbs, and the suburbs became townhouses. She glimpsed a sign on a passing freeway. Maybe it marked the city limits. There were few cars about – the roads weren't completely empty, but they weren't lively either. Even a sleepy city like Withersburg had some activity during the best of times. Of course, these weren't the best of times.

One of the pilots threw up two fingers. It'd only been about ten minutes, so Sami guessed a finger meant ten. A strange way of communicating time, but she wouldn't argue. Twenty minutes was better than two hours.

Sure enough, the terrain below became dominated by brick and concrete. Sami had never been to Withersburg, but it matched her presumptions. There were no high-rises, no imposing corporate buildings. Just narrow streets, churches here and there, a green expanse of park every once in a while. A little city, prosperous but not booming.

The chopper banked left, started to slow and descend. Sami grasped one of the ceiling handles and craned her neck to see where they could possibly land in the middle of the tiny city. They passed over a concrete-shored stream, slowed and came to a hover two dozen yards above a clearing about the size of a World Games swimming pool. It made up one-quarter of a sparsely decorated park. There was a cluster of tents at the clearing's edge, men running to and fro about their business. A couple figures looked up to the chopper and pointed. The clearing itself looked like it had once been carefully maintained, but now it was crisscrossed with brown patches and trenches of dirt carved by army equipment. A pair of wide tracks ran along the stream, set deep into the soil, marking the distinct trail of an Oberon that had recently passed through.

A shame, really. Sami had always liked parks. They were a little bit of nature in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city. She frowned. God, she could use a day off. A nice afternoon of lounging on a blanket, under an umbrella in the warmth-

The Reynault jolted, touched down, suspension creaking. Sami pushed her daydreams away and unfastened herself, kept a hand on her sidearm as she hopped from the chopper's hold, Zhang and a couple soldiers close behind. The infantrymen gathered and went off in their own direction, some lieutenant bellowing instructions over the racket. Rachel's two aides followed Sami, briefcases clutched at their sides, camo outfits rustling with the draft.

"Colonel!" An enlisted man trotted towards them from the direction of the tents. He squinted in the helicopter's wind, held one hand up to his brow. "Lieutenant Colonel Sami?"

"That's me."

He gave her and her followers a onceover. Then he turned and jogged away, calling over his shoulder, "The CG's expecting you. Please follow me."

(())

"What were you _thinking,_ Kullins? Do you have any idea how _disrupting_ your transgressions are?"

"Yes ma'am, but I-"

"Damn your excuses! I am drowning in a sea of excuses! If I hear one excuse from you, _Major Kullins,_ it had better be so damn convincing that pigs will fly upon hearing it!"

Sami shifted in her seat outside of Rachel's office. It wasn't a comfortable seat, but that wasn't the problem. She had never heard Rachel quite so angry before. Even the initial news of Major Kullins' insubordination hadn't thrown her into a fit like this. Sami realized that she must have been bottling up her rage for the past week, saving it all especially for the Major himself. And it seemed to be a good bit of rage – the walls weren't muffling it very well. The guard stationed on the other side of the door, however, did not seem fazed in the slightest. He remained standing, glancing up and down the wall at regular intervals. Hardly seemed to notice Sami at all.

"Now listen, and maybe this is an order you'll actually _think_ about following. We're going to have a briefing at 2130 on the second floor of this building. Team Kilo will have arrived, so there will be quite a few in attendance. Senior officers. I want you and your captains there. You're still a Major, for now, but I'm relieving you of your duties."

"Yes ma'am."

"I will be taking the role of CO for the 2nd Battalion."

Rachel, as a Commanding Officer? That hadn't happened since the Von Bolt war. Sami wondered how much of that decision was prompted by personal interest. She knew Rachel had been cooped up in her office after the war's end, that she'd been forced to deal with bureaucratic bullshit for two months back-to-back. She probably wanted to get out into the field, or at least out of the office, broken leg or not.

"Are we clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am."

"Good. Then you are dismissed."

The door opened. Out came Frederick Kullins, face more than a little red, cropped hairline sporting a few beads of sweat. He shut the door behind him and adjusted the collar of his tan uniform. Other than the wet and the color in his face, he didn't look all that disturbed. Then he noticed Sami, and he clicked his heels together followed by a textbook salute positioned just so under the rim of his officer's cap.

"Relieved, Major." She threw a salute of her own while getting to her feet and Kullins relaxed. She'd never formally met the Major before. They'd both attended a meeting sometime between the wars, and she remembered his face, but that was all. For a moment they simply regarded each other. Kullins was maybe an inch taller than her. His cold, black eyes examined her face, and then he removed his cap and tucked it under his arm.

"Permission to speak freely, ma'am."

Sami paused, hand halfway to the office door already. She frowned, looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Granted."

"I don't know you, ma'am, but everyone with half a mind in this army has heard your name. You've got experience. Experience is something I respect." He inclined his head towards the office door. "Of course, I… respect our Commanding General too. She's above me, above both of us. She has some experience, but not as much as you or I."

Her brow furrowed. _I'm sure you have the utmost respect for Rachel, you old bastard_. "If you're trying to win an ally against the CG, Major, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere." She turned for the door again, but Kullins stepped around into her field of view.

"That's not what I'm asking, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want this to become a political game. What I did, I had to do. I want you to understand that." Those black eyes found hers again. They were colder now, very sharp. Sami noticed the creases around them were much deeper than first glances would tell. He was probably older than her by at least several decades. Older than all of them. "I don't think the CG quite understands. She doesn't know what it's like to make a hard decision like that. You have, I know. A commander like you knows you have to choose sometimes, and some of those decisions are the hardest things in the world to make."

Sami tried to look as impassive as possible. "And?"

"Ma'am, all I'm saying is this – I had my reasons, to do what I did. To send Bravo into the grinder. Please don't judge me on hearsay."

Sami let her hand fall from the doorknob, and she narrowed her eyes. "Are you a man that believes the ends justify the means, Major?'

The corners of his mouth turned down. "If there's one thing I've learned in my thirty-five years of service, Colonel, it's that God does not smile on means. God smiles on results."

She said nothing for a while. Then she turned away and opened the door to Rachel's office. "Good day, Major." She heard Kullins click his heels again, the ruffle of clothes as he saluted. Then the clack of shoes on the tiled floor signaled his departure, cut off as Sami closed the door behind her.

"Sami, just the face I need to see." Rachel was seated behind a metal desk, assorted files, her cap, and a laptop spread across its surface. Her crutches were leaning against the wall nearest to her. The large window behind the desk had its blinds down but filtered open, and the single overhead bulb was on, so the small room had plenty of light. It wasn't really an office, though. More like a glorified janitor's closet. But this was the center of command for the Major's companies – or rather, Rachel's companies now. Sami imagined Kullins had chosen the three-story business townhouse for its inconspicuous appearance.

"Good afternoon."

A couple mismatched armchairs had been dragged into the room in front of the desk, and Rachel gestured to one. "Sit, please. No need to be asked." Sami took a place in one, sat down as orderly as an officer's conduct called for. Then she thought about it, thought about who she was in the room with, and slumped into its cushions with a little sigh. A strand of hair fell over her face. She didn't even bother.

Rachel grinned without taking her eyes off her laptop. "Feels good to rest, doesn't it?"

Sami rubbed her eyes. "God, yes. I can't remember the last time I slept properly…" she trailed off, fingers pushing at her temples.

"Before Loch Haven?"

"Yea."

"It's been naps in trucks since then, hasn't it?" The CG finished tapping at her keyboard, only to move her hand to tap at the rim of her cap. Her blonde hair was ruffled, cheeks red, eyes rimmed with dark circles. Sami probably looked similar, but that was war. There were worse fates than a disheveled appearance. "Would you like a drink?"

Sami blinked. "A what?"

Rachel disappeared behind the desk, and there was the sound of a drawer opening and closing. She returned, setting a shot glass and a fat bottle of something caramel on the counter. Whiskey.

"I… you don't drink, right?"

The CG laughed. "Oh no. I found this here when we arrived." She shrugged and flicked the bottle. "I can't imagine why anyone would leave perfectly good whiskey here, but all better for us. I personally can't stand the taste of anything but champagne. If you don't want any, it'll go to the captains."

She opened her mouth to refuse, but what came out was, "I could use a glass." Seemed her inner logician lost again.

Rachel uncorked the top and sloshed out a measure. "I'm sure you could hear my… conversation with Major Kullins." She topped off the glass and pushed it across the table. Sami picked it up, swirled it under her nose, closed her eyes and enjoyed the scent. Strong. She wasn't used to drinking something so strong. But it _had_ been a long week.

"I caught things." She tipped the glass back, and her head, and drained it all in one gulp. It burned, but for how green she was around whiskey, it was a good burn. It made her dry eyes water to boot.

"I hope you caught everything," Rachel said. "That man is impossible. He's experienced, and his loyalty isn't in question, but he's got his own mind when it comes to war. He doesn't like me, that's no secret. I'm half his age and twice his rank. He hates it."

Sami coughed. The whiskey was settling in her stomach now, the burn in her throat fading. "But disobeying direct orders and sending over a hundred soldiers to their deaths as an unnecessary precaution? That isn't grounds for dismissal? You didn't even demote him."

"I know." Rachel trailed a finger over her laptop's mousepad. "It would be the proper action to take, under normal circumstances. And that's what I wanted to do, that entire week we were running. I wanted to strip him of his rank, throw him back to Cosmo and have a military court deal with him."

"So why didn't you?"

Rachel put a hand to her forehead. "You heard everything, right? So you know about the meeting?"

Sami pursed her lips while examining the drops of whiskey left in her cup. "2130, here, second floor."

"Right. After I arrived, Kullins gave me some… information. Very important information." Rachel glanced at her. "Information that made me rethink my personal promise to court-martial him."

That made her stop rotating her glass. She lowered it and sat up straight, waiting for an answer.

But Rachel only smirked. "You'll find out soon enough. That's what the briefing is for. That, and we will be outlining the strategic plan for Omega Land."

Sami raised an eyebrow. "If his information was vital enough to blunt your wrath, why'd you blow your top anyway?"

Rachel's cheeks got redder. "I…oh. Well. Just because he had a reason doesn't mean I wasn't angry. He did disobey my orders. I can't be seen doing nothing, you know."

"Angry? I'll be honest, it sounded more like _furious_," Sami said as she set the glass on the desktop. "Well. In that case, can you at least give me a window to the rest of the world? I haven't heard much since we… left."

Rachel nodded. "Of course. The killsats are still a problem, but during our trip west the Air Force dug up some ASAT missiles from storage. Just yesterday Nell oversaw the first launch. It took out one of the killers threatening our satellite coverage, so Withersburg is safe. For now."

"Good news, finally. But we still haven't found out where they're coming from?"

"No." Rachel started typing again, the laptop keys clattering softly. "They're not being launched actively, that much we know. They were already up there. They've been up there for God knows how long. Serlin is still digging through records, but by now they're scraping the bottom of the filing cabinet. Getting back to within two decades of Blue Moon's first satellite."

"Huh. How's Cosmo?"

Rachel sighed. "As tense as ever. We're embroiled in total war, but the homeland is still all skirmishes and naval clashes. Thankfully the bombs haven't started dropping over Serlin, or Ulms for that matter. A couple firefights on the beaches of Star Island, but that's all. A Green Earth submarine was sunk in the Arctic Sea, as well as one of our missile cruisers. Nearly in Blue Moon waters. No, right now the problem is trade."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, obviously there are no goods going between us and the Greens, or the Comets. The fighting in the West Moon Sea is strangling commerce too. Blue Moon convoys are traveling without harassment, but the same can't be said for ours." Rachel trailed a finger over one of the reports on her desk. "One oil tanker sunk, one natural gas tanker seized, and one shipment of fruit that hit a mine."

Sami rolled her eyes. Some news. "Looks like the good people of Cosmo won't be enjoying the exotic this summer."

"A shame, isn't it? There's also a bad storm brewing in the Sea. Who knows, maybe it'll calm the fighting for a few days."

"Maybe." Sami put her palms on her forehead, elbows on her knees, and ran her fingers under her headband through her hair. So much going on. It was hard to accept that there was little she could do about anything beyond her own little theatre. Countless problems, from the war itself to Max's capture, from Yellow Comet's aggression to her own individual duty. She let out a long breath. "How do you deal with it, Rachel?"

The CG cocked her head. "Deal with what?"

Sami leaned back in her chair and waved a hand while looking out the window. "All of it. I've been on CO duty more times than I can count, in everything from urban fighting to armored combat in the field, commanding troops as few as a couple squads all the way to a whole battalion. But I can't imagine taking the next step. Brigade? Maybe." She sucked at her cheek. "But commanding a division is too bureaucratic for my tastes. How do you deal with an army?"

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, prodding at them with a forefinger and thumb. "I wish I knew, Sami. I guess I try not to think about it. It's my job, and I look at it as a job. A very important job. Why do you ask?" She looked at her again and smirked. "Afraid of a promotion?"

Sami shrugged. She didn't say anything. Honestly, she didn't know. Wasn't even sure why she'd asked. Was she afraid? Max was a full Colonel, and he'd managed it well enough. It wasn't an enormous step up from Lieutenant Colonel. But after that, what then? She still had most of her life ahead of her. If she stuck, she might make it to Brigadier General. A true general rank. But where would that leave her? Off the field and in an office somewhere, directing bits of paper? Ordering numbers around, not men?

"Maybe," she said finally.

"I can understand. I never had a field rank, but I understand."

The chatter gave way to silence. For a while they just sat there, Rachel typing away at her laptop, Sami enjoying the armchair's comfort and eyeing the whiskey. Eventually her mind came around to business again. "So, any other news?"

"Not especially."

"I… oh." She scratched her arm. "I mean, you requested my presence. I thought there might be-"

"I just wanted to tell you about the meeting."

Sami raised an eyebrow. "That could've been done in a memo."

"If you have one problem, Sami, it's that you're _too_ efficient," Rachel laughed. "It's a good problem to have, but everyone needs a break. I thought you could use one. And my reasons weren't entirely selfless, I needed someone to actually _talk _to. Shouting at Kullins doesn't count."

Sami opened her mouth, thought about it, and closed it again. Then she smiled. She hadn't smiled in a long time. It felt good. "In that case," she said, pushing the glass across the desk, "I could use another shot."

(())

They filed into the conference room one at a time. Rachel first, wobbling on her crutches, so Sami got to her feet, saluted, uncomfortable even in her green fatigues. It was damned humid. She'd found that Omega Land's humidity was worst before the deepest part of night, and 2130 was just about on the edge. To her right, Jake copied her and saluted too. It was a large room, large enough to house a long table and a dozen people. There was a smaller stand with coffee over in the corner. No windows.

Rachel was followed by the two aides that had arrived with Sami. Zhang was not with them. He was a private, not an aide. No place with the bigshots. That was the way the world worked, Sami reflected. There were meetings going on somewhere that she wouldn't have the clearance to even know about.

Next came Christoph, his gray fatigues the characteristic sign of a tankman. He looked tired. He'd only just arrived with Kilo an hour before, and for the past week none of its hundred fifty men had slept in a proper bed, captains included. Everyone was tired, though, not only Kilo. He would just have to deal with it.

Last was Major Kullins himself, who had apparently decided that the meeting warranted his full uniform, medals and all. Somehow it was pressed too. Where he found time to prepare himself so well, Sami could only wonder. Two other men followed in his wake, dressed in an equally formal fashion, though perhaps their attire was slightly less outspoken, fewer medals decorating their breast pockets. Captains, both of them. The commanders of Charlie and Echo companies, by Sami's guess.

With Sami's help, Rachel took the central seat on her side of the table, just to Sami's left. "At ease," she said as she settled into her chair, dropping a few folders and a pen on the surface in front of her. Sami and Jake both followed suit. Christoph eventually decided on the far corner of the table's opposite side. Kullins took the seat directly across from Rachel, his two subordinates flanking him and all three sweeping off their caps as they sat. Kullins eyed Rachel, hovered over Sami, and went to Jake. Then he glanced back to where Christoph was sitting next to his right hand officer.

"Captain Griffith," the Major said, holding up his right palm, "and Captain Pask," now his left. "Charlie and Echo companies, respectively." Griffith was a tall, gaunt man with a hooked nose and a recently shaved head. Pask was closer to Kullins in appearance, a little stockier but his sandy brown hair grown to a length bordering regulation limits, which was any standard haircut for a civilian. All three men had the same sort of permanent frown. Maybe Pask's was a little softer, but that could've been a result of his rounder face. Sami wondered which had been Christoph's superior.

Rachel tilted her head towards Christoph. "Captain Jorn, commander of Team Kilo, also of the 2nd Battalion. You know Captain Jake, and Lieutenant Colonel Sami, OSA special forces."

There was hardly a nod exchanged. The sense of tension between Kullins' posse and Rachel's side of the table was thick enough to knead. No doubt Kullins' captains shared at least some of their superior's disdain for the younger crowd. Sami noticed Christoph give the Major a hard stare once the older officer wasn't looking his way. He probably didn't know why Kullins was here, given that everyone figured he'd be on a cramped cargo plane back to Serlin by now. Hell, even Sami didn't quite know. No doubt Christoph blamed the Major for Bravo's fate, a feeling that was entirely justified. There had been only sporadic communications with Bravo Company a few days ago. Reports of heavy casualties. No way to help them, no way to send reinforcements. There wasn't time to coordinate a large enough assault, not unless they wanted to resign more men to their deaths.

"Let's begin." Rachel produced a remote and flicked on a wall screen at the far end of the table, but beyond that gave it no further attention. "This is a crucial briefing, so I've requested everyone, company commanders and up." The CG narrowed her eyes at Kullins. He only stared back. "Seven days ago, Major Kullins ordered the whole of Bravo Company to stage an attack on Calciki, which was – and remains – in Green Earth hands. His rational for doing so was to ensure that Kilo Company could pass by to the south unhindered and allow our forces to link up with his. Correct, Major?"

"Correct ma'am."

Sami saw Christoph's scowl deepen.

"Now," Rachel continued, flipping open a folder, "while the Major's actions were both insubordinate and, to be frank, _infuriating_, he has given me ample enough reason to only strip him of his duties and not his rank." With that, the CG fooled with her remote again. The screen did not change color, but the audio feed did. Voices, incomprehensible.

"This is a transmission intercepted by Major Kullins' communications staff the day Emperor Kanbei was killed." She tuned the volume.

The voices became louder now, but still gibberish, at least to Sami's ears. It was Jake who sat up in his chair. "That's Comet!"

Rachel only nodded, eyes telling something very serious. Sami listened. Soon enough, the speech flowed into Common.

"Eagle, my men are telling me I don't have much time." A woman's voice. Young, but if she was a Comet or a Green, her Common was nearly perfect. But was she really talking to-

"I heard this was imperative. Go ahead." Sami gripped her armrests. She knew that voice. It was as familiar as any, as familiar as Max's or Nell's. Eagle. There was no doubt. Her throat knotted. She had the strange urge to state Eagle's identity, but she kept her mouth shut.

"I didn't know who else to turn to," said the woman.

It was all Sami could do from jumping to her feet. "Sonja," she muttered. Next to her, Rachel only nodded.

Sonja's recording continued. "I have very few people I can trust anymore. That's why I'm contacting you. Can I trust you, Eagle?"

"I would like to think so. Before we discuss anything, however, I must ask one question. Did you have a hand in Yellow Comet's entry into this war?"

"No."

There was a pause. "Then you can trust me."

Sami found herself leaning forward, arms on the table, listening intently. Most everyone else only looked mildly interested. Only as far as this impacted the war. But Sami knew Eagle and Sonja well, well enough to call them friends. Allies, at one time.

"Good. Good, thank you. Eagle, right now you are the only person I have outside the palace. My father… he was not killed by an Orange Star agent-"

"I figured as much. Orange Star would have nothing to gain by assassinating Kanbei. Who was it, then?"

"Hardliners, in my government. They set up the whole thing. They wanted… listen. I have to explain much in little time. After the Third Black Hole War, Orange Star was weak. Some of our top generals wanted to take advantage of it. Not through war, at first, but just bullying. Gain concessions, perhaps. But my father said no, bless him. He said it wasn't honorable to stab a trusted ally in the back. That made them angry, but they settled down and grumbled for a while.

"Then your war came, and they went to my father and _demanded_ that he declare war on Orange Star and ally with Green Earth. They said it was a golden opportunity, that Yellow Comet couldn't sit idly by without taking its share of the spoils."

"Why? What spoils?"

"They feel that Yellow Comet's position on the world stage is slipping. Orange Star's stealth technology was ten years ahead of us, when it was unveiled. We don't have the research and development to compete. Then they deployed a host of aircraft carriers in the middle of the war. We can't keep up with that kind of production. We knew they were building them before the war began, but we could do nothing except sit back and watch. No one could, beyond Green Earth. But my father refused to give in to their demands."

For a while Eagle said nothing. Contemplating all the then-sudden information, perhaps. "So they killed the Emperor."

"Yes. And afterwards they came to me and told me that my father had been a relic of an old age, an age that was dead and gone. After the Black Hole wars, they said, honor was trivial. Black Hole did not fight with honor, and they nearly defeated us all three times over. Honor and loyalty would hold us back. I told them I understood, but…"

A sigh. "I… this is quite a bit to take in all at once, you must understand. What about Sensei? Grimm? Are they not on your side?"

"Sensei retired under pressure. He's unharmed, but the new government has him under surveillance. Grimm has been deployed as a minor CO in the Vermillion Isles. He has little power himself, and nothing with which to aid me."

"I would like to say I see your situation. You can't forgive them for your father's fate. If it were my father, I would've sworn their deaths a hundred times over."

"If you see, then you must listen. I don't want this war. I guessed that you didn't either. You didn't willingly go along with this madness, did you Eagle?"

Another pause. "Not quite."

"What do you mean?"

"I wish this hadn't happened, true. But there are reasons my government decided on this course, and those reasons I accept. As a general."

"But you didn't want this to happen, I know. Our entry. This will become another world war, if it hasn't already. And if we fight ourselves into submission, what will be left then? Blue Moon? I don't want another Blue hegemony any more than you do."

"That would be…bad," Eagle admitted.

"That would be worse than bad. Olaf isn't brutal like his predecessor, but he isn't the most benevolent Marshal General they've had either."

Someone coughed, sniffed. "Ok. Alright. Let's say all this is true – and I don't doubt you, Sonja, but you must understand my reluctance – if it is, what are you asking of me?"

"Find a way to peace. If Green Earth settles with Orange Star, we will too. These hardliners do know the folly in fighting alone. We don't have enough of a presence in Omega Land to war against even a weakened Orange Star."

Static broke the transmission for a moment, but it quickly returned. "I see. This is quite the charge you're laying at my feet, Sonja. The conflict is growing heavy here. Beyond significant losses by either side, I don't see a truce in the near future."

"It's the only – Eagle, I'm sorry, but my men are saying we're out of time. Any longer and we'll be picked up. I have to go."

"Alright then. Stay safe. Try to contact me again."

Rachel pushed a button on her remote, and the recording went quiet. Then she glanced around the room. All eyes were on her. Except Christoph's. His went between the CG and Major Kullins. Jake occasionally looked back at the television screen, eyes wide, like he couldn't believe it. Kullins and his staff only retained their stony frowns.

The silence of shock was broken by Christoph planting a hand on the table's surface. "Excuse me for being blunt, ma'am, but I don't quite see why this excuses our good Major of his deeds."

Kullins' lip curled and he shot Christoph a look. "I will have your _meaning_, Captain!"

Pask raised his chin. "Such remarks are-"

Rachel's fist came down on the table with a loud bang. The brewing argument abruptly ceased, and all attention turned to the CG. "Gentlemen!" she began, eyes narrowing, "I will _not_ have quarreling during _my_ meetings, between _my_ officers. Captain Jorn, your comments are out of place. Major Kullins' discipline is none of your concern. Major, I strongly advise you keep your temper, lest I lose mine again. Then I might not be so lenient."

"Yes ma'am," came the responses, more or less in unison, and more or less grudgingly. Christoph closed his mouth but the glowering he sent Kullins' way only deepened.

"Now then," Rachel said, placing a hand on the report in front of her, "As mentioned, this transmission was intercepted one week ago, within twelve hours of Emperor Kanbei's death. The next day, during our engagement with Green Earth forces in Loch Haven, Major Kullins managed to do something that is normally discouraged in wartime. He contacted the enemy commander of Green Earth's forces in Omega Land, Lieutenant General Eagle."

"What?" Sami balked. The exchange between Eagle and Sonja had been one thing, but contacting the enemy…?

This time Rachel responded without her former anger. Sami would've liked to think it was because the CG held a bit more respect for her opinion on the matter. "Yes. And he informed General Eagle that he had intercepted his communiqué with Sonja."

Sami stared open-mouthed at Rachel. Then Kullins. Misappropriating forces by wasting them in an assault was one thing. But informing the enemy of local Orange Star intelligence? It certainly was spelling treason more clearly with each passing minute. "With the utmost respect, ma'am, there'd better be a damn good reason why."

The CG drew in a breath. "Major Kullins' hope was that Eagle's resolve to end the conflict was genuine. In a series of short-ranged, short-burst exchanges, the Major believes that he confirmed that Eagle was less than enthusiastic about the war. Our Green Earth counterpart wants it to end quickly, shedding as little blood as possible in the process."

"And this is trustworthy?" Christoph spoke up again. "Are we sure Eagle isn't trying to pull a ruse and run us in circles?"

Rachel leaned back in her chair and folded her hands. "I will admit, when I first heard about this, it all seemed very unlikely. But since then, we've had more, ah, _unofficial _communications, if you will, with General Eagle. He has supplied us with information that we have confirmed through our contacts in Calciki and separate intelligence."

Sami ran a finger around the inside of her wristband. "Information like what?"

"Like the relative strength of Calciki's defense forces, for one. And the location of Colonel Max."

Jake clicked his tongue. "Max? You're not kiddin', right?"

Rachel dipped her head. "Fortunately, I'm not. By all accounts, Max is alive and well, and being treated fairly."

The news of Max's safety was well and good, but Sami had something else on her mind. "Calciki's defenses," she questioned, "he gave us those numbers too? That sounds like treason coming from his end." Sami had to admit to herself, she was more than a bit relieved hearing about Eagle's attitude towards the war. But this seemed far too generous, coming from an enemy commander. Even an enemy commander like Eagle.

"It does, doesn't it?" said Rachel. "But because we still have one dedicated satellite working over Omega Land, we can confirm most of it. Right now, Green Earth forces in Calciki number only two companies of armor and one of infantry, along with two aircraft squadrons, split evenly between Strikewinds and Lightnings. Batteries of artillery, of course, to the north. Perhaps a handful of combat helicopters as well. Most of these air forces, though, will be irrelevant if it comes to fighting within the city. When it comes to it. By contrast, Withersburg houses three full companies of armor, one of infantry, and enough air support to provide cover for our ground units. Mobile guns as well. There is also the possibility that Bravo Company's… efforts may have reduced Calciki's numbers further."

Sami drummed her fingers on the table, absorbing it all. The odds did seem to be in their favor, the way Rachel put it. Knowing the enemy's strength was a bonus Sami would've never expected. But those figures were useless without a plan. She found Rachel's eyes, studying them for a good stretch of time. Then she realized. "You're saying we should attack."

Rachel nodded, picking up a pen and jabbing at her documents. "Yes. Now. Before Calciki can be reinforced. Recent intelligence indicates Green Earth was just as unprepared as we were for this fight. We're not sure why, but we won't argue." She looked across the table. "Major Kullins' fortunate discovery – and his efforts – may have given us the window we need to retake Calciki, and allow Serlin to sue for peace from a position of strength."

"I don't believe this," Christoph growled. "Even if this is all true, why was the death of Bravo's men necessary?"

"To ensure that we could link up," Rachel stated. "A company and a half with experienced officers, Neotanks, and aircraft was more important than a single crippled company of Oberons and Surefields. It was a harsh measure, but a necessary one."

That seemed to shut the captain up, for now. He fell into his chair, looking more exhausted than ever. Resigned to defeat. Or brooding.

Apparently satisfied, the CG once again addressed the rest of her audience. "Now. That being said, here is our plan. We spend the next twenty hours repairing, refueling, and rearming. I want to ensure Kilo's men are well fed and well rested. Precisely twenty hours from now, our combined forces will head for Calciki. Forty-eight hours after that, we engage. Captain Jorn will continue acting as the commander for Kilo Company. Captains Griffith and Pask will also retain their roles. I will have overall command. Lieutenant Colonel Sami," she said, looking sideways to her, "will begin the engagement as the CO of Infantry Company A." Rachel twirled her pen between her fingers. "Once we have a foothold in the city, however, I request that Sami take personal lead of a Special Forces platoon and extract Colonel Max, as quickly and safely as possible."

Sami blinked, and her ears suddenly felt warm. It wasn't something to be afraid of, she told herself – she was OSA Special Forces after all. She'd done missions like this countless times before. But they'd been a while ago. Her command during Loch Haven wasn't quite the same. A delicate extraction would be much more… interesting, to say the least. One way or another, though, it came as no surprise when she heard herself say, "Understood." Inner soldier…

"Good. Glad to hear it. Major Kullins, you will aid me during the operation-"

There was a sharp knock on the door, but before anyone could give permission to enter, the knob turned. All heads whirled about, Rachel looking especially surprised. Perhaps a little irritated too. But the soldier that swung open the door, his head silhouetted against the rather bright exterior, singled the CG out.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to disrupt your meeting, but something urgent has come up."

"Yes?"

The man looked warily around the conference room, but Rachel waved dismissively. "Anything that needs to be said can be said in front of everyone here, private. Spit it out."

"It's Black Hole, ma'am."

Sami felt her stomach turn to ice. _"Son of a bitch,"_ she muttered. She heard Jake say something along those lines as well. The hell could it be? Raiders? If they had to deal with leftover Black Hole units now, everything they'd just planned could be undone.

Rachel got to her feet, or tried to, given her casted leg. If her face could've gotten any sterner, it did. "Are we under attack? Stragglers?"

The soldier shook his head. "No ma'am, not quite. Just one person. I tried to tell her to wait, but she insisted-"

"Who?" Rachel snapped.

"Some former Black Hole commander, ma'am, she insisted she see you, and she says she's commanding men enough to get her way, too. Name's Lash."


	17. Before They Are Hanged

Christoph thought that helmeted face was looking at him, but he couldn't be sure. But if it was, he wasn't one to be intimidated. Not even by the lifeless, featureless eyepanes. He was long past being unnerved by Black Hole soldiers.

They were standing across from each other, about ten feet between them, in nearly the same position. Feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind backs, standing abreast of fellow soldiers. Twenty men per side, set up nice and neat in the park's clearing. All infantry save Christoph; he was there to give the group some weight in rank. It was far after dark, around 2330 or so, but huge floodlights positioned around the area made it as bright as day. Any glance upwards would yield white spots in one's vision.

No, he didn't fear these groundhogs. He was too pissed that Kullins had gotten away with his bullshit. Didn't matter that Eagle wanted to end the war, didn't matter what intelligence the Major had collected. Kullins had defied the CG's orders, risked a court-martial, possibly wartime execution, and it apparently mattered as much as a turd in the woods.

So they stood there, staring at one another under the glaring artificial light, a line of Orange Star parallel to a line of Black Hole, as though on good terms.

Christoph fought to keep his standard military scowl from curling.

"What happened after the last war, Lash?" came Rachel's voice from down the line. If Christoph had turned to look, he might've seen Rachel and this Black Hole CO Lash, but that wasn't his duty. Right now he had a task to look as formidable and fearless as possible, a task that wasn't too welcoming to being busted.

"Oh, you know! What would I be doing if I'd stuck around? Pencil pushing!" There was a high-pitched giggle, most uncharacteristic of a military commander, to Christoph's mind. "I don't want to push pencils, I'd rather push buttons. Make things explode! It's much more fun."

This Lash, Christoph had heard of her. He tried to use it to distract himself from the antagonism still crawling under his skin, to get Kullins' incident out of his head. Lash was one of two Black Hole COs that defected to the Allied Nations during war. For the life of him, though, he couldn't remember the other one's name. He racked his mind, trying to keep his expression as solid as possible while doing so. The fucker opposite him with his helmet, though, had it lucky. He could be making rude faces and no one would know about it. Hell, he could be sleeping on his feet. But something told Christoph that these groundhogs were more disciplined than that. A lot more.

"Where did you go?"

"Around. I took a little tour of Omega Land before all the sand disappeared, kicking up storms here and there. Had some fun. Nothing too dangerous, though." Another giggle.

Christoph imagined the silence indicated Rachel's frown. He knew his reaction to Lash's claims would've been heavier, if it were true she had instigated the sandstorms long after the land started to heal.

"Well, we could have used you, you know," the CG said. "I'm sure you could've turned your skills towards more civilian avenues. Made quite a bit of money while at it."

The giggle again. "Really now? I bet, but that wouldn't have been fun either. And you wouldn't have let me anywhere near the Orange Star army's cutting edge stuff. Maybe if you'd offered that…"

Hawke. That was the guy's name. Tall man, by the pictures. Imposing, to be honest. He'd come over during the middle of the war, and by accounts he turned out to be a decent fellow. Presumed dead. But Christoph would've reserved his judgment, given the chance. Groundhogs weren't like Orange Star troopers. No honor, no humanity. Machines, all of them, even the COs. Christoph had fought enough to know, and he'd killed enough to know.

"You never asked," said Rachel. By now Christoph could see them approaching out of the corner of his eye. Rachel on her crutches, red outfit and all, hobbling along next to the CO known as Lash. Hardly the picture perfect officer: ridiculous frizzy hair, almost black, a black top, black shorts, and black boots. Slung across one shoulder was a dark gray trenchcoat much too large for the small girl.

Lash flicked a piece of white fuzz from her coat. It floated away and settled on the helmet of one of her soldiers. The man didn't move. Lash snickered. "You know me! I hate taking orders. I only stood that stupid Kindle because she let me make things like the Oozium."

Now that wasn't a pleasant memory. Christoph had never been in combat against a Black Hole force equipped with the so-called Ooziums, but the photographs weren't pleasant. No telling if they'd even been alive. Not even the best Orange Star minds could figure it out, and that was the scariest part of it all. An unearthly weapon that may or may not have been a living creature? It made his skin crawl.

Then he realized what Lash had said. She was the one who had created those… things. His gut tightened, got cold. A familiar feeling. Fear. Not the edgy fear that came with pumping adrenaline in combat, but fear of the unknown. Fear for, of all things, this little girl, a veritable teenager years his younger. Fear for what she could do. And she was simply grinning like a child.

"And Sturm?" Rachel asked.

They were passing just in front of Christoph now, when Lash stopped. Her silly demeanor vanished for a moment, the smile replaced with the furrowing of her brow. "That was different."

Rachel slowed and looked over her shoulder to her Black Hole counterpart. For a while nothing was said. Then Rachel nodded, as though understanding a thing unspoken between them. She coughed delicately. "Pleasantries aside, we have important business. I need to hear your offer again. All the details."

Lash was swinging the sleeve of her coat in circles, the end coming close to brushing one of her soldiers with each pass, but she wasn't looking that way. She scanned the line of Orange Star, a little half-smile on her face and one hand on her hip. "Come on, it's not _that_ hard to get, is it?"

Rachel's eyebrow went up. "Formalities, Lash. I'm the Commanding General, and I need to know what you want from us."

The coat sleeve flopped down, and Lash let out a sigh. "Fine. Ok, listen up, because this is the _last time_ I'm gonna tell you." She poked the closest soldier's helmet with her index finger, right in the forehead. "I help you with your fight here, taking Calciki or whatever it is you want. You give these guys asylum," she prodded at the abused soldier, "pardons and stuff." Lash removed her finger, and pointed to herself. "And you give _me_ a position in Orange Star's R&D."

If in a different place at a different time, Christoph would've snorted at the offer. And if he were the commander in charge, he would've had some choice obscenities to throw at this little girl. Would've probably had the lot taken as prisoners of war, too. After all, the post-war cleanup wasn't done; it'd just been put on hold. But Rachel looked contemplative, lips pressed together in a thin line, like she'd actually consider the deal.

The thought made the anger rush back. It almost felt good. Certainly better than cold fear.

"Why?" Rachel asked at last.

"Why what?"

The CG shrugged. "Why those terms? Asylum to your men? Since when have you been so caring?" The comment was made with a smile, but Christoph detected no friendliness in its meaning. If the hearsay was true, Lash had never been one to consider the lives of her soldiers. Or civilians, for that matter.

Lash giggled and threw a playful arm around the same trooper's shoulders. He didn't move, not an inch. "Well, these guys are special. They were my old command from the Macro Land War. We had lots of fun then, didn't we guys?"

A resounding silence answered.

Lash dropped her arm and frowned. "Well, maybe you couldn't call it _fun_. But," she turned to Rachel again, recovering her casual look, "I couldn't just leave them to be picked off after the last war. Might as well try to get them a better piece of the pie."

Bullshit. Even Christoph could smell it. There'd never been a Black Hole officer that had actually cared a fuck for his or her men. There was something else going on here, some sort of ulterior motive hidden behind Lash's seemingly childish façade. With one possible exception from the Second War, Black Hole didn't employ idiots. And they certainly didn't employ anyone who wasn't ruthless.

By the look on Rachel's face, she wasn't so convinced either. She sucked at her gums, drummed her fingers on her crutches. There was no way she could say yes, Christoph knew. To do so was to endanger Orange Star's forces. It was too risky, Black Hole too unpredictable, Lash too juvenile-

"Alright. Consider your offer tentatively accepted."

Christoph nearly choked on his own breath. To reach a conclusion so easily, with the greatest enemy the free world had ever known? To make a _deal_ with them? Even considering the circumstances, it was absurd. Enraging. That hot feeling in his gut became more than just anger. But there was nothing he could do – physically or mentally. He was stuck with his task, and he had absolutely no authority on the matter.

But he'd be damned if he went along with it willingly. This time he couldn't help his expression from turning south.

"But," Rachel said holding up a pair of fingers, "Two things. First, I'm not promising anything. We'll need to talk together. Hammer out the details, determine exactly where everyone will be shuffled to when this is all over. I can do my best to get you into R&D, but I can't make any commitments. That's not my prerogative. Your men," she waved a hand at the Black Hole line, "I _can_ guarantee asylum for them. That much I will pledge.

"Second… I need you to understand any reluctance on my part - or my staff's part," the CG glanced at Christoph, "to fully trust you or those troops under your command. You went AWOL, or as AWOL as a non-Orange Star officer could be. And you don't have the best track record either, Lash."

Lash stretched her arms in the air and yawned. "I know, gosh! No need to remind me. I figured you'd say that." Then she grinned and held up two fingers of her own, exactly in the manner that Rachel had just before. "Which is why I've got something else for you. Two things. Things to make trust between us easier."

She waggled her index finger. "One, I know all about your little satellite problem," now her middle, "And two, I know where the killsats are from."

Rachel had been scratching at her neck. Now she stopped, eyes narrowing. Slowly her arm fell to her crutch handle again, her gaze fixed on Lash. "You know?"

Lash giggled. "Of course I know. I designed them."

A hush fell over the forty-two Orange Star and Black Hole. As hushed as it could be with trucks rumbling through the clearing and along the nearby roads. The soldiers themselves kept their silence and their fixed faces, Christoph included. Rachel only stared at Lash, and Lash smiled back.

Then, the CG called over her shoulder. "Lieutenant."

A tall man at the end of the line stepped forward. "Yes ma'am."

"Your platoon is relieved and dismissed." Army code for _go get some sleep_. "Captain, you're with me."

The lieutenant threw a crisp salute, then turned ninety degrees towards the line's center. "Platoon, march!" Christoph took a step back to remove himself while the eighteen remaining Orange Star soldiers all copied their officer and made a quarter turn, before marching in an orderly fashion towards the cluster of nearby tents.

Without a word from Lash, or anyone for that matter, the groundhogs did the same, facing opposite Orange Star. They began to file off to the other side of the clearing, presumably where they were stationed. Or being held. Christoph watched them go with little better than a scowl.

Finally, as the soldiers from both factions dissipated, Rachel made for the north side. To her command post, perhaps. Lash sauntered up next to her, and Christoph followed in step behind them both, hands folded behind his back.

"Lash," Rachel said, "you must understand how critical this news is. You're saying those killsats are yours?"

Lash nodded. "Uh huh. Like I said, I designed them. They work well, don't they?"

"That's not the point," the CG snapped. "Who's controlling them? Are there Black Hole units in league with Green Earth? Yellow Comet?"

"Oh no." She stuck the tip of her tongue out and fooled with a curl of hair. "Well, I guess there _could_ be Black Hole working for Greenies. But they don't have the ability to use them."

"Who, then?"

Lash pursed her lips and squinted. "Well, before Hawke and I got booted from the party, the last I knew was the killsat software was in a Black Hole base in Calciki."

Rachel frowned. "Green Earth holds Calciki."

"Then you've found your culprits!" Lash started playing with her coat sleeve again, twirling it in circles. "But the software is only one component. To control the killsats' maneuvers, you need the access codes as well."

For a moment, Rachel glanced behind to Christoph. Like she was afraid to ask the question herself. "And the codes?"

Lash only shrugged. "No clue. I never had them. They weren't even my idea. Kindle put them in place to make sure 'little kids' couldn't have fun with the things." She crossed her arms and put on a pouting face. "Stupid Kindle. They were my invention, and I had every right to them!"

Rachel shook her head. "So they were Black Hole tech the whole time. Should've known."

"Oh yea. We built them to protect the Black Onyx. But they weren't designed for use against ground-launched missiles, which is how you guys blew it up. That was my idea too, you know…"

Christoph could hardly keep silent any longer. He might not've had Rachel's rank, but he had a right to know the details. "The missiles were your idea?" he asked.

Lash looked over her shoulder, a curious expression on her face. "No. The Black Onyx." Then she nudged Rachel with her elbow. "Hey, who's this guy? I don't remember him from the war."

"This is Captain Jorn of the 2nd Battalion. Newly promoted."

"How new?"

"A week and a half," Christoph said.

That half-smile returned. "Oh? Do you like your new job, Captain?"

Christoph let a little sneer creep into his mouth. "My old job was fighting Black Hole, and my new job is fighting Green Earth. So not much."

Lash looked ready to say something witty, but Rachel intervened. "These killsats. You say both the software and the codes are required to control them?"

"Uh huh." Shadows fell across the three and Lash looked up, still spinning her sleeve. They were passing under the outer trees that ringed the park's edge, the floodlights behind them receding. It was starting to look and feel like night again, out here away from the activity. Darker and cooler.

"And the software was being held in a base in Calciki? Where?"

The trio stepped out onto a thin, one-way road. Soft light returned, hosted by distant streetlamps, but it wasn't nearly as overbearing as the park. The standard city block that held Rachel's townhouse-headquarters stretched opposite, none of the structures any higher than four stories. Lash looked one way, to the left-hand intersection where a couple army recons idled, then the other, at the far-off right-hand intersection occupied by a stationary Oberon and a few men having a smoke. She yawned again. "Under some crazy hospital. There was an old bomb shelter there, so that's where we set up."

Christoph raised a brow. "You placed your base of operations under a psychiatric ward? How appropriate." Probably shouldn't have said that in front of the CG, but somehow it seemed less important than it should've. A little part of him wanted to sabotage Rachel's efforts at hammering out a deal with Black Hole. He didn't want to have anything to do with business involving Black Hole as allies.

But Rachel hardly seemed to care. "Then it's definitely Green Earth behind it. I just… God, I hope that's not the reason for this whole damned war. How… _trivial._"

Christoph didn't think it was trivial, this notion of commanding a web of orbiting weapons that one could use to destroy enemy satellites, but Rachel had a point. Did Green Earth weigh the risks and rewards and decide that war _was _worth it? A war to seize the means of control? It seemed ludicrous. Green Earth was powerful in its own right, but so was Orange Star. They must've known that the conflict would have only become more and more brutal as time passed. Hundreds of lives lost already, thousands to come as the fighting escalated. Billions of dollars in damages and the years of time that would be required to rebuild infrastructure. After _two_ wars. He chewed on his lip for a while before speaking up. "It doesn't seem right."  
Rachel nodded. "I agree, it doesn't. And if they had been counting on diplomacy to settle it all once they'd taken Calciki, they made a huge miscalculation. We're not so easily bullied." The CG took careful steps up the curb and towards headquarters' doorstep. Just a small stone archway over the glass-windowed wooden door itself, golden handle dulled with years but still presentable. Two infantrymen flanked the entrance. Both saluted, and one reached to open it.

But once on the sidewalk, Rachel stopped, compelling the other two to do so as well. She rubbed her eye with a palm. "Lash, what do you think?"

Lash tapped her chin, eyes wandering about the shuttered windows above them, then to the offered door. She shrugged off her trench coat. "I dunno," she said, tossing the coat at the idle soldier. He started, barely caught it in surprise while nearly fumbling his rifle. Lash smiled, giggling like a schoolgirl. "I never liked politics."

Rachel clicked her tongue and turned to the same soldier. "Private, you can escort Commander Lash to her troops. We're done here." The soldier looked confused for a moment, perhaps because of the coat that was now his charge, but recovered his wits to throw a timely salute and make his way down the doorstep. Lash made to follow, but glanced over her shoulder to give Rachel and Christoph one last laugh. "If that's it then, Rach, I'll see you tomorrow! We'll meet again to get everything right. This little operation should be fun!"

As the Black Hole officer left, Rachel gave her a soft smile as well, but it quickly faded once Lash was well away with her escort. She dabbed her brow with her sleeve, shook her head again. "I swear, that girl…"

Christoph's eyes trailed Lash as she faded into the night. "Speaking frankly, Commander, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Rachel looked at him. "What? Working with Black Hole?" The CG shrugged and followed Christoph's gaze. "It's as good a plan as any. I trust her enough to uphold her end of the bargain. No more, but I'm inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. She turned out to be alright, once she came over to our side."

Christoph took a deep breath. "But she left, didn't she? After the Von Bolt war? She left without as much as a word. That doesn't give you pause?"

Rachel turned her head one way, then the other, neck popping. "Maybe, but we don't have very many options right now. I'll take what aid we can get, if it ends this war early." Then she turned away, swinging her way up the steps to the open door. "That'll be all, Captain. Go get some rest. You'll need it for tomorrow. We all will."

As the door shut behind the CG, a part of Christoph wanted to obey. He was tired, hadn't had a proper bed in a week. But instead he just stood there at the base of the steps, frowning into the night, frowning after Lash's vanished figure.

_Benefit of the doubt?_ That was a lot of doubt Rachel was overlooking. He wouldn't have done the same, if in her shoes. Even if their newfound Black Hole allies could've been trusted, Christoph wouldn't have given them the chance. As far as he was concerned, they didn't deserve one fucking ounce of sympathy.

But they'd gotten it. After all they'd done, after all the lives destroyed because of them, the fucking groundhogs would get a break. It wasn't fair at all.

_But that's life, isn't it?_

_Or maybe it's just God._

(())

The leaves above traced floating patterns of red and orange as they swayed in the breeze. Ever-shifting, ever-changing, a living canopy over Sami's head. It was bright, as bright as day, but no sun shone through the branches. Only the hidden ginger sky, no clouds at all.

"Be quiet, or I _will_ shoot you." Who had said that? She tore her eyes from the foliage above and looked around. She held a pistol, a pistol that was pointing at a disarmed Green Earth soldier. He still had his helmet, his body armor, his gear. It hardly looked appropriate on someone so young. He looked scared too, but who could blame him? Anyone would be scared staring down the barrel of a gun.

_Oh. I said it._

Her eyes flickered to the left and right. From the brownish-bronze soil sprouted some wild brush, untamed and tangled with one another. Wild like the forest. She was in a forest. But there was a body on the ground that broke the natural scene. Another Green, slumped unconscious. Then she noticed the bloody hole at the base of his skull. Not unconscious. Dead.

Her grip tightened.

"Sami – hey." Leaves crunched to her left and she stole a glance, keeping the pistol on the frightened soldier. There was Christoph, looking for the world like he didn't have a care. One of his arms was stained red, right up to his fatigues' elbow. The bloodied hand reached for her. "Hey, it's Christoph. We got 'em. They're dead."

"No they're not!" she snapped. Was he fucking blind? She still had one more Green to deal with. And she _had_ to deal with him, or their whole mission could be jeopardized. Their whole mission could be _compromised_.

Sami screwed her eyes shut, bit her lip, ground her teeth. "I am not compromised," she muttered. To be compromised was to invite disaster. To spell doom for herself and her friends, and the countless other soldiers under her command. She opened her lids. The soldier was still there, still terrified.

"You can put the gun down," said Christoph. This was strange, though, because when she looked at him again he didn't have a head.

Then someone else spoke. "You're compromised, Colonel." The soldier. She growled, gave him a glare and curled her trigger finger-

But the soldier wasn't a nameless Green grunt anymore. His helmet was gone, replaced with aviator's goggles. His hair had somehow changed too, gray and dashed with bits of white. An older face, one she knew well, smiling softly but with hard eyes, a face she was about to shoot-

(())

Sami woke with a start. Everything was black. Something was covering her eyes. Her hair, she realized after a few moments. She brushed it away, blinked, tried to get her bearings. Something was hanging over her, a dark, thin piece, perfectly still, a cold observer silently scrutinizing her for any sights of consciousness.

An aluminum pole lamp.

Reality trickled back, its return strangely bittersweet. She was in her quarters. Her personal tent, really. She blew out a breath, mopped a few stray strands from her face and let her head loll to the side, tough pillow hardly giving way. The glowing blue hands of her watch – which she never wore – stared at her from the folding table next to her cot. 0218.

She sat up slowly, crossed her legs. The sheets were damp with sweat and stuck to her skin. She told herself the humidity was to blame. It _was_ damned humid, that was all.

But she knew that was a lie.

She crossed her arms too, fingers wrapping around her limbs. For a while Sami just sat there, shoulders hunched over, sheets drawn up around her waist, woolen army blanket abandoned halfway over the side of the bed. She stared at nothing, trying to call her senses back. She was conscious, of course, but the fuzz of sleep still brushed at her mind's edge. Her body cooed at her to yield and return to the comfort of her pillow. She didn't, though. Her heart refused. Already the dream was fading into oblivion, as every dream does, but that last image remained. She willed it to leave as well. It refused to obey. Only remained vivid in her mind's eye.

Slowly, eventually, she found enough will to break the inactivity. Her sleepy gaze floated around the tent's interior, across the motionless yellow tarp wall a couple meters from the foot of the cot, over the zipped entrance flaps, to the folding table on the other side and the clothes atop. She wanted to focus, to dissipate the fuzz. She exhaled again. There would be no returning to sleep's embrace. Not immediately, anyway. She'd have to lay there in the damp and try to let the heat overwhelm her senses, a prospect that didn't sound very appealing.

Her sweatband was on the sidetable, next to the glowing watch hands. She plucked it up, snapped it around her forehead. Then she flipped the white sheets away and swung her legs around, letting her bare feet fall to the grass. The ground was cool, should've felt good, but it didn't. Only clammy and cold. She pushed off the cot, made to the table and grabbed the pieces of her fatigues. _No, bad idea_. She remembered how miserable she'd been at the meeting. So instead she only picked out the green leggings, pairing it with her white top.

Familiar. And much cooler.

A few moments later Sami unzipped the flaps and stepped into the open air. She blinked and squinted. The temperature wasn't much better. If the night had any cooling effect at all, the floodlights near the park's center countered it. Wasn't really bright, but bright enough to require a few seconds of adjustment. Certainly brighter than a natural night. And busier.

She looked around as she started to walk– wasn't sure where – and sometimes an armyman would go by, infantry or noncombatant. Someone had to stay awake, after all, even if the orders were to rest up for the assault.

The assault. In two days time they would be in Calciki, as long as the plan succeeded. Right in the center of it all, with Black Hole at their side, engaging significant Green Earth forces. Could be the battle to decide the war, if either faction had any sense to offer peace afterwards.

So Sami walked. Before long the cluster of tents receded behind her and the park's ring of trees loomed up, hardly illuminated by the now-distant floodlights. A boundary between work and play, in normal times. Now work dominated both sides of the barrier, a work that was deadlier and more crucial than any other.

The road was beyond, the same road that granted access to Rachel's HQ. She wondered where the Black Hole contingent was stationed – she'd yet to see any of them beyond a few distant figures clad in all dark. That'd been just before she'd turned in for the night, when Rachel had summoned her and outlined Lash's deal. And her acceptance.

It wouldn't be alien, working with Black Hole. They'd done it when Hawke and Lash had defected and brought a brigade's worth of soldiers with them. Nothing new, not for her at least, but it didn't make her any less wary. She'd have to keep on her toes, for her own sake and for the sake of her men. For the sake of the whole Battalion, for that matter. She was the highest ranking officer within fifty miles, other than the Commanding General herself, so she held that responsibility as much as Rachel did. After all, Lash's disappearance after the Von Bolt war had only cast suspicion on her nature, even considering her past aid.

The grass underfoot became the white concrete of the sidewalk. She turned to follow it, heading towards the city block's center. The buildings hardly loomed in the citylight nighttime. They weren't very high. She could see Rachel's headquarters down a ways, two guards marked by the feeble glow of their cigarettes. As she continued, she saw another two infantrymen emerge from the night and walk up to the door. Might've exchange a few words with the sentries. Then the stationed men came down from the front doorstep and ambled off on their own while the two newcomers took their places, one to either side.

Headquarters was still a good fifty feet down the road when she noticed another black figure, this one on the other side of the narrow asphalt stretch sitting on the curb, hunched over nothing. The style of his uniform wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but as she got closer she could make out the shade, at least. Gray.

Sami took a last few steps, slowing and stopping across from the tanker. "Evening."

Christoph looked up from the road, his brown hair nearly black in the night. For a while he said nothing. Then, "Hardly evening."

Sami slid her hands in her pockets, looked up at the inky blackness above. No stars, the city light was too overwhelming. "I always thought it sounded strange to say 'good night' in greeting."

He might've shrugged, it was hard to tell in the dark. "Whatever."

It wasn't Sami's job to ask what Christoph was doing sitting on headquarters' street in the dead of night, so she didn't ask. She was doing the same, after all. She continued to stare at the sky for a while, before letting her head fall and her gaze with it. She thought any conversation with Christoph would be awkward and tense, especially one not anticipated. The only one they'd had during the last week had certainly been more than a little edgy. She wanted to put it all behind her, though, at least for the sake of the mission, but sometimes one's wishes were a lot harder to enact than one's instincts. She tilted her head, kicked a small stone off the sidewalk, watched it roll a couple feet before disappearing into a gutter.

"Have you spoken to Rachel recently?" she asked.

"Yes," came the answer from the gloom.

"And?"

One of Christoph's eyebrows went up, maybe. "You mean about Black Hole?"

"Yea. I know all about it. Do you?"

The Captain snorted. "Fuckin' bullshit."

She pulled her hands from her pockets and crouched, picking up another stone and rolling it around in her palm. "More soldiers on our side is good, even if they're Black Hole. You don't agree?"

"No, I certainly don't. I don't care if they shat golden bullets, I wouldn't have taken them."

She made a fist, pressed the stone into her skin, felt the rough, uneven edges. "But maybe it'll mean less casualties for us. Wouldn't you rather have Black Hole dying than Orange Star men?"

Apparently Christoph didn't have an answer to that. He only sat there, opposite Sami, forearms on his knees, wrists loose. Two officers, breached by a one-way road, a distance that seemed so easily surmountable but in reality was larger than any chasm.

Sami let the rock slide from her palm. It clattered to the asphalt, bounced a few times but didn't go very far. She looked up at his shaded figure. "You should sleep, Christoph." It was the first time she'd used his personal name since the retreat, and it felt a little strange. She brushed her hands on her khakis. "If you're still fit for command tomorrow, then you'll need to be rested."

"Same could be said for you," he muttered.

He had a point, but Sami wasn't up for considering other people's points right now. And she was Christoph's senior officer, so she didn't even have to. "I did already. So consider it an order, I guess." She meant to say that in an easy manner, or at least in a manner that wasn't sharp, but it still had an edge to it. So much for friendliness.

Christoph looked up again. There was a blankness to his face. His muscles were all slack. "How can you accept it, Colonel? Fighting alongside Black Hole? Because you weren't here when they destroyed this land. You were on the other side of the world, listening to the news. Probably sounded terrible over the radio, didn't it? But you couldn't come to our aid until your orders came through the fax. Cosmo and Macro had their wars, but Omega Land was bled dry. You didn't see the worst of it, of what they did. It makes me sick knowing I have to fight next to the men that did it."

She frowned, looking back to the road. It was true, what he said. The wars back home were "just" wars. What Von Bolt did to Omega Land was far worse, and far more unforgivable. But did that really give Christoph a reason to doubt? Should it have given _her_ a reason to doubt?

"That's how it is, though," she said finally. "Rachel's word is the last word. Whether or not we agree, all we can do now is carry it out. Unless you don't believe you're the right man for the job."

He glowered at her, hard. Not like he was angry at her, but that he was angry at her words, because they rang true. He knew it, she could tell. "I can do it. I just don't have to like it."

That was true too. He didn't have to like it. Sami just nodded, slowly flexing her knees, straightening her legs. She eyed that black figure on the other side of the road, saying nothing. It was still risky, keeping him as Kilo's commander. He would have to do, though. There weren't many options, and not many qualified officers.

Sami sighed, closed her eyes. "Go rest up then. I'll do the same."

No answer.

So she turned away, headed back for the park and her tent, slipping her hands in her pockets, head angled down. Hadn't been much of a conversation. Why had she done that? To take her mind off her own issues? If so, it hadn't helped.

Because even as the memory of the dream disappeared, Eagle's face remained.


	18. The Worst

_To know what is right and to not do it is the worst cowardice_.

- Confucius

(())

"Lieutenant. Hey, Sepp, wake up."

Sepp hurt. Why did he hurt? Seemed he always hurt nowadays, and he sure wasn't an old man. Pain filtered through the black veil of unconsciousness, started as a general throb in… well, everything, really. Then there was light, but that was pretty general too.

"Alright, I hear ya," Sepp said. Or tried to anyway, but all that came out was "Muh." He lifted his eyelids. Everything was blurry. "Can't see," he managed to mumble. Something felt weird, like the world wasn't positioned quite right.

"Hold on," came a whisper. There was the sound of metal, some shuffling. After a moment, "It's clear outside, looks like." Then a rusty creak and brightness washed over Sepp. He grunted, pawed his own face. At least he could move his hands.

"Where are…?" He blinked, dropped his arm, tried to shake the fuzz away. He was sitting down somewhere. Slumped was more accurate. The pain started to fade away in parts, but settled in others. His head, for one. Sepp sat there, half-dumb and ignorant of his world while the ache in his neck crept up his spine, found his brain.

More movement. Someone crouched next to him. The light was coming from over the guy, Sepp could tell now. Whoever it was tapped his fingers on metal and whispered, "We're still in 14, sir."

"14…?" Then it came back to him. Calciki. The assault. Bravo Company's lone drive for the city.

And the last thing he could remember was radio static.

He tried to collect his thoughts, remember names. "Bannon?" he asked.

"Yessir, that's me." And so it was. Focus returned, and the first thing Sepp noticed was that everything was slanted towards the commander's side, the entire tank tilted. Bannon took off his helmet. Sepp's vision was clearing up enough to see the gunner's light brown mustache and the craggy lines around his eyes, illuminated by the shaft of light falling from above. Sepp looked up. The loader's hatch was open about halfway. It wasn't quite day outside, not yet. Either early morning or evening.

Sepp groped for something to hold, found the wall-mounted handlebar next to his commander's station – which was his current seat – and pulled himself upright, only to have his helmet bang on the ceiling above him. "Fuck!"

"Shhh!" Bannon put a finger to his lips. "Sorry Lieutenant, but we can't take chances. You forget you were wearing that thing?"

"Yea, screw you too," he muttered. Now his headache was worse. He unfastened the chinstrap, pulled his headgear off and made to throw it away before thinking twice and setting it on the tilted floor. Then he looked around. His terminal was blank and lifeless, no signs of power. Bannon was crouched between the commander's chair and the loader's, one foot on the base of Sepp's seat to keep himself upright in the angled cabin.

Sepp ran a hand through his hair. Could almost feel his head throbbing through his scalp. "Where's Luthar?"

Bannon pointed to the tank's rear. Wasn't much room between the engine and the seatbacks, but when Sepp looked he saw a body crammed in the tight space.

Sepp swallowed. "Dead then?"

"Yep."

"An' Lokhande?"

"We took a shell to the front. Fire died a while ago."

That was all that needed to be said, of course. He and Bannon were the only survivors of 14's crew. Sepp counted himself among the lucky. He sure as hell liked to be alive.

Bannon wrinkled his nose, mustaches bristling. "You were out for a while, sir. Wasn't sure if you'd come back."

"How long?" Sepp asked while squinting at the open hatch above.

A shrug. "Eight hours, maybe."

"Musta cracked my head pretty hard. Useless thing." He gave his abandoned helmet a rude gesture. Then he looked at his gunner and somehow managed a grin. "And you didn't leave me, eh? We merry few."

Bannon let out a laugh, got up and heaved himself into the loader's chair. "'Course not, sir, but it helped that the Greens came 'round for a look-see. Ensured I stayed nice and snug here after it was all… over."

Sepp felt his grin slide from his face. He tried to remember the battle again. He closed his eyes, mentally retraced their course. When they'd first engaged, enemy resistance had been heavy, as predicted. Artillery support from Roma's mobile guns broke the first wave of Greens and slapped up the second, but after that they'd sent in their attack choppers to sniff 'em out. The artillery had withdrawn, but there'd been no word beyond that. Sigfried's command truck had been lost in the action. Afterwards…

"Fuckin' slaughter," he muttered.

Bannon just nodded, looking at nothing.

Sepp took a deep breath, glanced up. "So the Greens sniffed around, huh? Good move, staying here."

"Yea." The gunner fooled with the end of his mustache. "I never saw 'em, didn't dare stick my head outside. Sounded like a few dozen men, a platoon maybe. They actually took a look in here, but they probably thought you were dead."

Sepp blinked. "Did they now? What'd you do?"

A shrug. "I hid under Luthar."

"Shit," Sepp breathed. It'd been bad, then. Little chance many of his men had made it out. He'd prepared for it before, knowing the assault on Calciki was a suicide mission, but it still wasn't easy to accept. He'd led those troops to their death. Wasn't his fault, of course, but it didn't stab at him any less.

He rubbed at the chafed skin of his elbow. "We need to get outta here. Can't sit in an Oberon all day."

Bannon nodded. "Agreed. Want to take a look outside, sir?"

"I guess." Sepp got up from his chair, bent over in the cramped compartment, head still thumping. Bannon removed himself from the loader's seat as Sepp clambered onto its skewed surface, straightened himself and slowly peered over the rim of the hatch, squinting into the brightening world outside.

They were on a road – a straight one, old brick-faced buildings lining either side, one way sidestreets going off here and there. They weren't tall, maybe five or six windows high at most, not like downtown but it wasn't the suburbs either. Just businesses and some townhouses. Or they'd been before. Most had blasted holes in their walls, or facades peppered with cracks and bullet holes, windows shattered. The nearest one's roof had caved in, fragments of brick and mortar spilled over the sidewalk below. The road hadn't fared much better. It sported blown piles of scrap or concrete and craters up to the size of small cars. 14's right track was stuck in one such gouge, which accounted for its tilt. About fifty yards down there was a three-way intersection, the road halting and splitting off to the left and right. The traffic lights that remained swayed silently on their cables, no red, no green, no nothing. Just blank.

Another Oberon – it'd been an Oberon at one point – lay shattered on the other side of the double yellow line, turret blown off and upside-down on a crushed car, one tread ripped, the flat pieces scattered over the asphalt. Its metal carcass was charred black in three different places. No signs of life.

Sepp craned his neck round. The road behind his tank stayed straight but the buildings got smaller and sparser as the distance went on. The brightening sky washed purple over Calciki's remote southern suburbs. There was more wreckage scattered that way, a mix of broken Oberons and smashed civilian vehicles.

And not a single soul in sight.

He ducked back into the tank, into the gloom. Bannon was in the commander's seat, leaning against the wall, arms folded, one boot on 14's loading mechanism. "Bad, isn't it?" the gunner said.

Sepp nodded. "Yea. Deserted too. You didn't see anyone at all?"

"When the Greens came 'round they took a couple live tankers with them. Prisoners, probably. They won't treat 'em bad." Bannon cracked a couple fingers. "After that, no one. I guess the civilians got out beforehand."

"Probably-"

Then he heard it. A motor, diesel, not too large, maybe four-wheeled. Wasn't Orange Star, though, Sepp could tell from the sound. But it was growing in volume.

"Shit," he breathed again.

Bannon scrambled from his chair. "That's them. Damn it. They're coming around again." He held a ceiling rung and leaned over the gunner's chair in the front, grabbed something and tossed it at Sepp. Sepp caught it. A rifle, one of four assigned to each tank crew. Then Bannon slung an identical gun over his shoulder and turned back. "We need to go."

"They'll see us."

The gunner squeezed past and climbed onto the loader's seat to peer outside again. He cocked his head for a moment, halfway outside the tank. "No, we've got time. They're coming from the same direction as before." He pointed out the hatch, possibly towards the intersection Sepp had seen earlier. "Last time I counted, good minute and a half from when I heard 'em to when they came rollin' around that corner." Then Bannon looked back inside at his lieutenant. "It's your call, though, sir."

Sepp swallowed, took his rifle in both hands. He glanced around the tank. Didn't want to abandon it, but he knew that was a ridiculous thought. It wasn't safe anymore. He wished they had options, but they didn't. "Let's go."

Bannon shoved the hatch out of the way, door banging against the Oberon's metal hull, and dragged himself out. Then he turned to help Sepp through. As Sepp's torso emerged into the morning light, he shooed Bannon away and threw his gun onto the turret top before pulling himself up. Bannon leapt down to the road below as Sepp was retrieving his legs. Just his luck, though, for his bootlace to get caught on the inner latch. He cursed a half-whispered blue streak, lashing back and forth to free himself; didn't take long to get loose but it was still frustrating. He grabbed his rifle and scrambled down the Oberon's sloped hulk to join Bannon.

The distant motor wasn't so distant now, and it sounded like more than one. Not much time, regardless of what Bannon had said. Sepp took in details that he'd missed before: the other side of the road wasn't too far, but the buildings over there all had closed doors. Might be unlocked, might not. He rounded the front of his tank, rifle up, boots crunching on broken gravel underfoot, stealing a quick glance at the driver's hatch. It wasn't there. Just a big, charred hole. Must've taken a close-ranged hit. Now wasn't the time to think about it though. He swept his eyes over the right side of the road, examining the brick buildings. They were a pleasing reddish clay color, multi-patterned awnings over welcoming business doors, flower pots and wooden shutters decorating residences. Might've been nice, at a nicer time.

He spotted one structure that was definitely open, though. Open because the top two stories of the three-story townhouse had crumbled at the corner, creating a messy slope of debris at ground level. Half of a bathroom was visible, the toilet precariously close to toppling over the edge. Otherwise the hole just faded into the blackness of a larger room. The house itself had probably been a pristine property. Brick like most everything else, pretty old but refurbished recently so it had a modern tint to it. Sepp guessed it'd been expensive, given the neighborhood. It would have to do.

"Come on," Sepp beckoned. He took one last look at 14 – a defeated sixty-ton husk of war machine, half-buried in the debris of the city it tried to save – and moved on, stepping over a pile of brick and concrete, Bannon's footsteps following. Sepp swept his rifle up and down the sidewalk while the diesel growl was ever present, ever growing. He moved for the building wreckage that was the slope up to his chosen structure, threw his rifle across his shoulder and started to climb, Bannon at his heels.

"Better hope they won't find us up here," said the gunner.

Sepp grasped the edge of a fallen I-beam, hauled himself onward. "I don't wanna be in that metal deathbox when they arrive. No telling what plans they have for the scrap." He looked up. They were about halfway there, the crumbled wall leading to the building's interior just dark rather than pitch black. He glanced to his right, to the east. The sun was floating above the building tops now, quickly turning dawn into morning. Sepp picked up his pace, boots scraping over broken concrete and tile, fingers wrapping round metal rods and trashed rubble. He was only a few feet from the second story now, and he steadied himself upright, unslinging his weapon. The gun's barrel swept the open bathroom to the right. All that remained within was the toilet and a sink. No one hiding in there, but he wasn't about to let a scared homeowner come at him with a kitchen knife. The thought made Sepp wish for body armor. Tankers weren't equipped with it, and his fatigues sure as hell wouldn't stop a blade.

Satisfied that the bathroom was secure, he poked the rifle into the dusty murk of the larger room, taking a tentative step onto what remained of the floorboards. Wood underfoot creaked. Wasn't a good sign, probably weakened by the destruction-

"Oh," Sepp said to himself.

His eyes were adjusting to the gloom now. It wasn't that the floor was weak, but that it really wasn't there at all. A huge chunk of the ceiling had fallen out and crashed through the second story floor, leaving a gaping hole smack in the center. He and Bannon would've had about twenty by twenty feet of room to move around in, but that'd been reduced to maybe half that, the remaining space confined to the edges. Some of the room's furnishings still remained, though: a bedside table in the far corner, a bookshelf with its contents spilled over the hole's ragged edge, a landscape painting that'd miraculously made it through the carnage. A few other wall-mounted decorations were either tilted or cracked and broken on the floor.

Sepp stepped into the wrecked house, listening for cracks as his weight settled on the boards. Nothing too profound. Seemed safe enough. So, carefully and cautiously, he leaned forward and peered into the hole.

A four-postered bed had fallen like a dead meteor into the kitchen below, might've flattened a dinner table to boot. Same with a dresser. Either the second-story room Sepp was in now had been a bedroom, or the third-story room above was. At one point.

But the most important thing Sepp noticed was the lack of residents. He waved over his shoulder. "Alright, it's clear."

Bannon followed, copied Sepp in looking at the ceiling, then down through the floor. "Damn."

"Don't act like you ain't seen it before," Sepp said as he moved along the streetside wall. He stopped at a window, considered pulling the fancy shades closed but decided against it. He continued around, moved through an open door opposite their torn entrance, checked it with his rifle. Just a hallway with two sets of stairs going up and down, and a tall window. Looked fairly intact, considering the state of the rest of the house. Nothing to see.

As he returned to the former bedroom, he saw Bannon pressed against the wall, rifle at his side, peering out the window. Then he glanced at Sepp. "They're almost here."

The sound of engines only confirmed Bannon's remark, but now Sepp noticed something else, another mechanical growl. Wasn't just trucks or recons. Heavier, but not a tank. He made his way round the shattered floor, took up a position next to Bannon, craned his neck to look through the paneled glass. Didn't take long for the Greens to start pouring in from the three-way intersection. One recon, then two, navigating around rubble and potholes. A third one followed, but the fourth vehicle wasn't quite what Sepp had expected.

Sure wasn't a Lynx. A little squatter, big metal scooper fixed to the front, armored plates bolted to the sides. A combat bulldozer. Not a common sight in war, but a necessary piece of the trade.

"Good thing we moved," Sepp whispered. Probably wasn't necessary to speak so quietly, but the presence of Green Earth soldiers had its effect.

Bannon nodded. "Damn good."

The bulldozer made the turn, started crawling down 14's road in the wake of the three recons. Two of them parked on either side of the road, well away from the tank wreckage, and soon enough their doors opened. A squad apiece climbed out one by one, stepping none too hastily, spreading out in a loose formation while ambling down the sidewalks on either side of the street. No sense of urgency at all. They were chatting, pointing, occasionally glancing at buildings, but never Sepp's, thank God.

After a while they moved beyond the window's view, so Sepp turned around. He crouched low, moved nice and easy towards the gouge they'd entered through. He heard Bannon curse at him, but he ignored it, making it to the corner and carefully peering around it and down below.

The infantry on Sepp's side of the road reached 14. One of them found footing on its hull, climbed onto the slanted turret with the help of his comrade. He stood, brought his rifle up, kept it fixed on 14's open hatch as he advanced and glanced inside. Sepp held his breath - he hadn't even considered what might happen if the Greens failed to find the body they'd left before. _Shoulda put Luthar in the chair_. Fuck, there was always something-

But apparently the soldier didn't care, or his crew wasn't the same group that'd passed by before. He gave a nod to another Green, they exchanged a few words. Then he stood straight and waved at the bulldozer.

Sepp dared to edge his head out a little more, praying that his shock of curly blonde hair wouldn't be noticed. The great mechanical beast that was the dozer rumbled closer as signaled. It was so large that it ignored the yellow line, taking up most of the road's width. It plowed through several piles of debris without a hint of slowing, exhaust pipe belching smoke as the great shovel lowered. Then it angled towards 14.

Sepp might've felt some figurative pain as the bulldozer crunched into the dead Oberon, but he was too busy trying to remain as small as possible. The metal edge of the scooper found 14's underbelly, pushed forward, engine roaring. Wasn't long before 14's left flank was lifted from the road, though it happened slowly. The shovel came up, boosted the Oberon inch by inch before the dozer itself started forward again and added its own weight to the effort.

There was a crunch as 14 was lifted up, literally put on its side, the tank's entire weight crushing the broken asphalt beneath. Then the creak of metal and suspension as it reached its tipping point, fell from the scooper, descending in agonizingly slow motion.

The enormous hulk crashed turret-first on the sidewalk with a chorus of tortured metal and squealing hinges, the concrete underneath cracking and buckling in front of Sepp's eyes. He felt his throat tighten as his upside-down Oberon settled in its new position, discarded, abandoned, a defeated behemoth flipped so easily and carelessly. There was always something to be said for a man's machine, especially one that brings its owner unscarred through fire and death.

But that was all there was to be seen. Sepp turned to the interior of his hideout, crawled back over to Bannon. Neither said anything. Not much to be said. It'd clearly been a damn good idea to get outta there, but now they had to think about the next phase of the plan. Out on the street Sepp could hear the bulldozer moving to dislodge its next target and the Greens shouting to one another, trying to coordinate their clearing efforts.

Bannon let out a breath, clicked his rifle's safety off and looked at his lieutenant. "Well, that's that. Now we just gotta sit tight, then find a way out."

Sepp just nodded. His thoughts exactly. A way out, a way back to Orange Star lines. It was hardly a choice. More like something they had to do or risk capture by Green Earth. But what didn't cross his mind was how they'd go about it.

(())

"Captain, we have air power inbound."

Christoph tensed, braced himself as best he could in his new Oberon's rumbling interior. Wouldn't do a damn bit of good if a Lightning came around and shot up his tank again, but he couldn't exactly stop reflex. With one hand on his terminal and the other on the side of his helmet, he keyed his mic. "Where from?"

"Northwest, looks like two Strikewinds. They're on afterburner-" Christoph imagined the Green Earth fighters blitzing across the sky, dropping bombs and missiles on his men, on his crews. Made him sick. Made him angry. " –and they're gone. Heading northeast now. Probably scouts."

He let out a breath, cut the connection with his forward squadrons and swapped channels. If the Orange Star force was close enough for the Greens to eye, then he wanted to make damn sure the other companies were ready. Problem was, that wasn't his job.

"Orchid, this is Kilo. I just got a report of a Green flyby, just scouts, no damage. Over."

Orchid – central command – responded, the voice of some operator coming through the radio clear as freshwater. "Alright Kilo, thanks for the heads up. We'll inform the rest of Halyon's elements. Orchid over and out."

Halyon. Codeword for the strike force heading for Calciki. Three Orange Star armor companies – Charlie, Echo, Kilo – along with one infantry company, a battery of anti-air, and a group of artillery, all supplemented by unexpected and newfound allies. Black Hole. Two additional companies of them – one armor, one infantry.

The assault could've been done without them, Christoph knew. No need to stoop to such levels as working with those butchers. But Rachel apparently had decided it was necessary, and Sami hadn't objected. They didn't get it. For all their rank and experience, they didn't understand. Omega Land's war had been in a different league from the first two conflicts.

Christoph scowled, tried to redirect his attention, and eventually accepted the temptation of his viewer and peered through. His new Oberon – Number 19, its former commander injured – was rolling up a grassy hill. As he watched, a couple shrubs disappeared under the bottom edge of the viewer, crushed beneath the tank's treads. The knoll wasn't large, and before long 19 reached the crest, allowing Christoph a view down the miles-long, gradual descent to their objective.

Off in the distance, Calciki waited. A glittering spread of man, buildings hardly distinguishable but the sight itself clearly a city. Between Halyon Force's position and Calciki, Christoph could make out twisting roads and clumps of green forest, houses lined up in tandem with both the natural and artificial features. Calciki's suburbs. The upcoming battle wouldn't take place in those suburbs, not like the last conflict – at least, that was what Orchid hoped. The plan was to surpass them, spare those homes the destruction that had been fostered upon Loch Haven, and close on the city itself before artillery and rockets began to rain from the sky and war machines exchanged reports.

But that wasn't something to be dwelled upon until later. Christoph swung his viewer around, inspected the immediate area. 19 now rumbled on at a slight downward grade, the slope hardly suitable for even a child's winter sledding grounds. Trees and rocks abound, but it was clear enough to allow 19 to move without much maneuvering. He looked forward again to spot a stretch of road a couple dozen meters ahead, curving in from the east and ambling off north, towards Calciki.

Without taking his eyes from the extension, Christoph waved at his loader. "Nybo, that the road we're looking for?"

There was a pause, presumably as Nybo glanced through his own viewer. Then his scratchy voice answered, "Yessir, that would be it."

Christoph removed himself. He gave Isaac Nybo a sidelong glance. An imposing man, Nybo was. If he'd been any larger he wouldn't have been accepted into armor: didn't quite have to squeeze himself into an Oberon, but it was close. Shaved head, like many military types, arms and legs akin to tree trunks. Good man, so far. Knew his stuff.

Again, Christoph flicked on his radio, this time to the company-wide channel. "Team Kilo, Delta 8 here. We're coming onto our designated route. Remember, we follow it until we get past the suburbs. Then we fan out. Plenty of room, not too many trees, so don't get too close. I don't want as much as a single damn fleck of paint scratched. Understood?"

A round of affirmations returned. Christoph closed the channel, returned to his extension. He swiveled it around, looked to 19's left. A couple meters away, another tank from his command squadron rumbled by, heading north like all the rest. Might've been Number 16. Didn't matter, as long as it stuck with the group. Each squadron had to work as one, or the assault would never succeed.

He leaned back, away from the viewer, settling himself in his metal seat, staring at his terminal's monitor. He wasn't worried at all over the discipline of his men; they'd do as they were ordered. No, that wasn't the problem. That wasn't a variable. The only two variables that mattered now were Black Hole and Eagle.

(())

Orchid Command, stashed away inside a mobile APC a few miles behind Halyon's main body, was brightly lit. The APC's interior lights cast their glare into the vehicle's every nook and corner, on the dull, green metal walls, leaving no space untouched, no crevice dim. It was lively too, and crowded. A makeshift command station of a few laptops was spread across a folding table in front, right behind the drivers' cabin, each machine with its logistics man or technician. A few others to the side flicked through papers and folders, exchanging vital information, performing unnamable tasks in the name of the army. Behind them all, right in the hold's center, was Rachel, standing without the aid of her crutches but still clad in her cast.

Sami shook her head, looked away, back to her assignment on the table in front of her. She planted her hands on the cool metal surface, either side of her open folder, leaning over, eyes flickering across the papers. She wanted to read. She had to read, in order to prepare herself for the upcoming mission. But right now the environment wasn't quite conducive to reading.

She sighed, the expression lost to the hustle and bustle of command. Sami straightened up, palmed her lower back and arched her spine to let loose a couple pops. It was no use. The activity was getting to her. Wasn't like she'd never done it before – prepared for a mission in the middle of chaos, that is – but this time she was finding it difficult. Focus wasn't coming easy today.

When she let her chin fall the folder was still there, open and waiting. Sami thumbed through the sheets, only glancing at each, having lost heart enough to actually read them. Lots of words, mostly. Half-baked reports of what to expect in Calciki. What few documents there were on Green Earth forces matched Eagle's accounts. But that wasn't the mission she was preparing for.

Her fingers halted, thumb and index on the corner of a particular page that displayed a diagram. A photocopy, and whoever copied it hadn't done a very good job. But a readable diagram, nonetheless. It was the building that was, supposedly, Max's prison. A psychiatric ward, closed for renovations before the war. Never was quite finished. Sami felt a little tug at the corner of her mouth. The Greens were both smart and humane to use that facility to hold their prisoners – as secure as a penitentiary but much more sanitary. It almost made her feel good. Almost.

She pushed that away, a hard frown setting in again. This was her mission. She didn't have to worry about preparing for the armored combat that was fast approaching, nor the exchange of artillery fire and aircraft missiles. Sami's job lay right before her: extract Max from his hold and bring him to safe territory. Didn't matter how well he was being treated; he was still a PoW, and she meant to see him out of there.

Sami almost found enough heart to read again. Focus-

"Ma'am, those scouts are on their way for another look. Heading right for the bulk of Halyon."

Sami looked round, saw Rachel hobble to the front and use the back of a chair as an armrest. "Alright. Keep an eye on them, regardless. How many? Two again?"

The technician put a hand over his earpiece. "Yes ma'am..." He cocked his head. "No, wait. Three. All from the northwest."

Rachel's fingers drummed their drum on the edge of the seat. "As long as they're just looking. But these scouting parties are becoming a little too frequent for my tastes. Get Withersburg on the line, I want Hawkeyes covering us…"

As the CG rattled off instructions, Sami ducked away, making for the APC's rear door and snapping up a pair of binoculars on the way. It was all a little too much for her right now. She needed space, needed to think. She wasn't sure if the outside world would be any more forgiving, but she figured she'd give it a shot. The door cracked open, and Sami slipped out before pulling it shut behind her.

It was a different atmosphere in the open air. The APC was situated on the edge of some lightly forested terrain, just at the crest of a downward hill bank. As Sami ambled around the APC's hull, fingering her binoculars, she looked out over the knoll's edge to the north. The sky over central Omega Land was a cloudy gray – overcast and threatening rain but never quite delivering. Calciki was only a hazy line of darker gray against the green plains below and washed sky above, but it was definitely there.

Sami stopped a few feet in front of the APC, leaned against a chest-high boulder and peered away into the landscape. She could make out bits of movement, objects formed in tight groups of four or five, all treading in tandem, all moving north. Halyon. The central portion of the battalion-strong force was comprised of Christoph and his Kilo men. Flanking the left and right were Charlie and Echo. The mechanized infantry and their Cornerstones were interspersed, but the bulk of them were running behind Kilo and Charlie.

Then there was Black Hole. Rachel had assigned them to the far western flank, to sweep in from the southwest and support Infantry Company A's efforts. The infantry were the key to this whole operation, Sami knew. Urban warfare was a different kind of game, alien even to the sort of combat Kilo saw in Loch Haven. There was a difference between fighting in a small town and fighting in the confines of a city. Armor would be relegated to providing mobile cover and support for the grunts, rather than the other way around. It was an unfortunate truth, because Orange Star's strength in numbers lay in its Oberons.

But on the other hand, air power wouldn't count for much once the fighting reached urban areas, thus reducing the effectiveness of Eagle's best troops. In turn, that gave Orange Star forces something of a warning – Strikewinds and Lightnings would almost certainly hit Halyon soon, before it got too close to Calciki. The only question was when.

Sami brought her binoculars up, resting her elbows on the rock's rough surface, and focused on a central squadron of Oberons just now rolling onto Route 90. In the past that route had connected Calciki's suburbs with Omega Land's former headquarters, but now it was Halyon's course of invasion. Route 90 twisted its way through a few small towns before ending where the city proper began, and where the city began wasn't the most open or sparse of city blocks. The armor would have a tough time of it when they reached Calciki, but as long as the Green Earth air force had trouble too, Sami wouldn't complain.

She was scanning the horizon when she saw it – glints of light off metallic objects, moving in from the northwest. Her first thought was a squadron of Lynx, but the things were skimming over treetops and houses alike. Coming in low and fast. Aircraft, and more than three.

"Speak of the devil."

Sami glanced to her side. Zhang was inexplicably there, mostly geared up but missing his helmet. His jet black hair was plastered to his skull in places – there weren't many opportunities for personal grooming out on the field. His eyes were fixed through his own field glasses, and Sami let hers drop. "You see them?"

A nod. "Uh huh. Definitely Green Earth, and it's not just another scouting party. I count…" His eyebrows narrowed, came together. "Three flights. Two of Lightnings, one of Strikewinds."

Sami took another peek with her own glasses, frowning. "You can tell that from this distance, private?"

"Yes ma'am. You forget, my grandfather lived five years of his life under skies full of Green and Comet fighters. He taught me well. Always thought the Greens would come back for him."

"I see…" Sami craned her neck, working out a few kinks. "Seems strange they would send mostly ground-attack aircraft. They should know we have air cover as well."

Zhang shrugged, letting his binoculars fall to his Kevlar vest. "I imagine they'll send in the Strikewinds when they're good and ready."

Sami turned back to the north, still frowning. They'd prepared for this, for the enemy air force. Didn't abate the gnawing in her gut, though. "Well," She said, playing with her wristband, "we'll send them packing soon enough. It's when more come around that I'll be worried."

(())

"Buckle down, boys! Lightnings inbound!"

And that was all that needed to be said. Christoph heard a muffled curse come through his earphones, from the driver or gunner, he wasn't sure. Nybo hunched in his chair, one hand on his helmet. Then 19 swerved right, forcing Christoph to catch a rung to avoid toppling to the cabin floor. The maneuver was harsh but necessary – better to zigzag about than streak straight down an open road in full view of enemy air power.

"Where's our air cover?" Nybo yelled over the racket of machinery.

"No clue-"

There was an explosion somewhere, stifled through the hull but still deafening. 19 shook. Somewhere within a few dozen yards the strikes had begun. Wasn't unexpected, but that didn't make Christoph feel any better.

"Fuckin' Eagle," he muttered, inaudible even to his own ears.

19 straightened out, then jarred left. Christoph was forced against the right wall, but it gave him time to grab at his extension. He looked through the shaking piece. Outside was chaos, and 19's erratic movements weren't helping. The left side of his screen was clouded with light, so he switched to true vision, swiveling around to 19's rear. An Oberon was already gone, hit with unseen bombs, flames flickering through a gap in the turret top. The burning husk retreated in the distance as 19 rolled onward, Christoph's driver doing his best to avoid the same fate.

Christoph pivoted the viewer up, as high as it would allow, only seeing streaks of white and silver flash overhead. Low, very low, probably no more than a couple hundred feet above ground. Clever bastards, those Greens were, and amazing pilots too. It took balls to fly so close to the ground, but they knew this was the only shot they'd get at striking Halyon, and they didn't want to get hit with stray antiair.

As Christoph watched, another pillar of white rocketed in from the south in a reverse arch, detonating in fire and smoke somewhere in the sky. One of the Greens had gotten too cocky and flown too high – Orange Star missiles from forested cover had taken the opportunity to correct his error.

That was enough for now. Christoph pushed the extension away, braced himself as best he could and tapped his mic. "Driver, any sign of ground forces?"

"Neg, Captain. They're not taking chances, just hammering us from the sky."

Christoph switched the channel off with a scowl. Fuckin' Greens were just taking pot shots, and there was nothing he could do about it. His Oberons were helpless, entirely dependent on antiair and Hawkeyes. He wanted to _do_ something, not just dart around like some scared mouse, incapable of fighting for its life. But there were no opportunities, no methods of retaliation. It was… hell, it was _maddening_.

He scowled, ground his teeth. Something told Christoph this was exactly what those civilians had felt back in Loch Haven.

(())

"Goddamn, they're good, aren't they?" Zhang said.

Sami could only nod. The neat and orderly formations of the Greens had dissolved into a frenzied mess of exhaust trails and blooming fireballs. The two flights of Lightnings were pulling all the stops, flying dangerously low, so low they risked getting hit by the shrapnel of their own ordnance. But it was working. A couple had gone too high, permitting Sami a spectacular view of missiles off to the east gladly remove them of their airborne positions. But until Hawkeyes arrived, the ground-based antiair could do little – the treelines were too lofty for them to target much, and if they moved to open ground for better shots they'd be picked off as easily as the Oberons.

So far, though, Halyon was maintaining discipline – as much discipline as could be asked for, at least. Even Black Hole was maintaining the thrust. In fact, the Black Hole hadn't been hit yet – it was likely that Green Earth command hadn't anticipated their presence at all. That made Sami's grin return. It was another edge for Orange Star, and she would gladly accept any edge she could get.

An airborne growl started to their rear. Sami glanced over her shoulder, peered through the trees above the small convoy of Surefields guarding Orchid Command. More aircraft, coming in from the direction of Withersburg. Hawkeyes. One flight, then another screamed overhead, jetting north to engage, white plumes trailing.

Almost before she could swivel her neck around again, a handful of Hawkeyes loosed bright lances that speared across the sky – inaudible over the distance and booming ground ordnance – a blooming crisscross of missile exhaust that blanketed the battlefield. Then the Orange Star aircraft broke and spread out in time to receive the first returning missiles from the Greens.

And just like that the fragile situation degenerated. At first "messy" had been the word Sami chose to describe the scene unfolding before her. Now it was utter chaos – there was no way of knowing who was who, to Sami's eyes. She imagined it was all up to the pilots' IFF scanners and their own instincts, and that didn't leave her feeling any more comfortable.

She bit her lip, tried to survey the scene through her binoculars again. Things were getting too out of hand, though, for her to observe any sort of coherency. Halyon's tanks swerved in and around cascades of fire and newly gouged craters, desperately trying to avoid becoming the next victim of the Greens' weaponry, while the infantry's Cornerstones were only slightly less obvious and slightly more panicked amongst the bedlam. The Green Earth pilots, though, now had their hands full with the Hawkeyes. The battle in the skies was just as intense as any on the ground. As Sami watched, brilliant clouds of reflected light sprouted in the sky, shining even in the mid-day sun.

"They're having fun with the chaff, aren't they?" Zhang said.

Sami only nodded. She wasn't in the mood for one-liners right now. Everything hinged on this one battle – either the Green Earth fighters would be repelled with heavy casualties, or they would successfully defend themselves and proceed to rain death upon Halyon Force.

"The thing I don't get, though," Zhang continued as missiles from both sides removed at least five aircraft from the fight in an explosive instant, "is if Eagle really does want to end this, why's he putting up such a fight? Wouldn't it be easier to just usher us in with open arms?"

Sami chewed her lip. "He wouldn't. It would betray his own men. Doesn't matter if that would save them, he's not going to let his troops get walked all over like that."

"But, is it worth their live-"

"Yes." Sami found herself giving Zhang a hard look, felt her brow furrowing. "That's how it is. Eagle's not the kind of commander who would throw his men's honor to the wind like." She took a breath, let it out and squinted over the engagement. A Hawkeye had taken an indirect hit and was streaking to the ground, oily smoke pouring from its wounded engines. "The Greens might be like us but they're still their own people. They see things differently sometimes."

Zhang said nothing, the corners of his mouth only turning down. He set his field glasses to his eyes again. They both stood there in mutual silence, the gap easily closed by thundering explosions and tearing jet engines. It was strangely serene at Orchid's position, an odd contrast to the destruction they were both surveying. Surreal, even. The effect was not dampened by the fact that Sami had experienced such scenes before. It was the duty of the commander to watch and direct, not observe. Of course, she wasn't directing now…

Finally, Zhang asked, "When we moving out, Colonel?"

The comment brought Sami back to reality. "I don't know. When we break through, when Halyon makes it to the city. Then our team loads up. We have solid coordinates, and a good idea of where Max is being held in the facility." She mentally reviewed her team, hand-picked for the mission. Zhang was to be her right-hand man during the whole thing. Then there were eight others, all Special Forces, a few even flown in from Omega two days ago, though that transport hadn't been ordered with the knowledge that they would be assigned to this undertaking.

Ten total, with Sami as the lead.

In the northern sky a Strikewind was spectacularly shattered by a Hawkeye's missile, creating a miniature sun in the blue and gray, if only for a moment. What was less spectacular was when the broken aircraft used its last controlled maneuver to bank south and smash into the hill face a hundred feet down from Orchid Command. It wasn't close enough to rain shrapnel on them, but it didn't do anything to steady Sami's nerves either.

She decided that was enough. It wouldn't do her health any good to watch, and it wouldn't do the army any good to lose a CO from preventable circumstances. She turned away, back towards the APC. Up in the APC's cabin the driver and his co were seated in their chairs, eyes wide, watching the battle unfold in morbid fascination. Probably rookies. Just their luck to have rookies driving the CG's command vehicle.

Behind her, Zhang called out. "Where you heading, ma'am?"

"To prep. For the mission."

Almost lost over the din came the response, "What if we don't break through? No use in preparing then."

Her frown only deepened as she walked away without answering. Wasn't sure why she didn't. Because she didn't know? No, that wasn't it. Because she didn't want to accept that it could happen?

That answer seemed a bit more real.

(())

"Hold on-!"

19's interior became a metallic rodeo, Christoph's chair the bull, and his only focus right there and then to cling to his seat for his life. His helmet banged on the roof, then clattered against the hull wall, leaving his ears ringing and brains upside-down.

"Sorry 'bout that, streambed in the way-"

"I don't give a shit, private, just don't get us killed!" Christoph said. His driver was probably a rookie. A good pilot, but still a rookie. Didn't yet know when to shut his trap.

The explosions outside had decreased in volume but not in frequency. Christoph guessed that the Hawkeyes had arrived and were now engaged with the Greens. He would take it. Anything to spare him and his men more casualties. Now the only question was if the flyboys could hold off or repel Eagle's best until Halyon made it to the city.

Fuckin' Eagle. Seemed everything could be traced back to him – all the conflict, all the death, all the unforeseen casualties of war, even this little shit of an operation. They could do it, Christoph knew. They could take Calciki. But it wouldn't be pretty and it wouldn't be clean. The city wouldn't come out of it without more than a few wounds, and neither would its inhabitants or Christoph's men. The thought made him ever the angrier, but anger could be harnessed. It could be a tool-

And just like that it was over.

The terrible jarring subsided, the warhead detonations ceased. 19 was once again on a clear path.

Nybo cocked a brow at the ceiling. "The fuck…?"

For the nth time that day, Christoph grabbed at his viewer. Sure enough, there were no more overwhelming flashes of light and no explosions. In fact, as he tilted the viewer up he saw fewer aircraft than there had been before, and those jets that remained were of a familiar design.

"It's done," he stated. And definitely not too soon. Seemed the flyboys had done their job and fended off the Greens.

Then Christoph's mind switched gears. Casualties. He needed to know how many tanks he had lost, how many men were casualties. He flicked open his company channel. "Kilo, this is Delta. Report in, over."

One by one his platoons complied, some tank commanders with steadier voices than others, but they all had an edge to them that hadn't been there before. No one comes through an airstrike without being rattled, even if you're a veteran. Eventually, every group signaled its presence to Christoph, but a few did report losses. One platoon had been reduced to just the command vehicle, but most only wrote off one Oberon, maybe two. Out of four, that was acceptable to Christoph's mind. He did the numbers in his head and came up with roughly twenty percent losses. Also acceptable. Definitely acceptable, considering they'd just taken a full-on barrage by the world's best air force and lived to tell about it. He let a grin slide across his face, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Nybo give him a look.

_Let him look._ Now he had the chance to take the fight to the Greens, and he would take it. And he would be damned if Eagle could stop him.


	19. Calciki

"Squad, gear check – sound off!"

"Hutchins okay!"

"Ishiot okay!"

"Bishop okay."

And down the line they went, each member of the ten-man unit announcing his or her state of readiness. The next man in line would pat his shoulder with his opposite hand, nod, and grunt his confirmation. Then the next, and the next. It came around to Zhang, who repeated all the movements, said, "Zhang okay," and looked at Sami.

Being suited up in full gear felt strange. Sami's vest seemed too cumbersome, helmet too constricting, equipment too heavy. It'd been a while since she'd been required to take to the field as a combat soldier – with the exception of Loch Haven – especially as full-fledged Special Forces.

Her thoughts must've shown, for to her right Zhang raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. Just enough so she could see it, but no one else.

"Alright," she said. "Good." The APC's lights were suddenly too bright. They were always too bright. She tried not to squint. "I know you all didn't expect to be thrust into this mission, but there it is." She scanned the faces of her new soldiers. Hard faces, all around, and they needed to be, for Special Forces. Sami lifted the edge of her helmet a touch. "I know you've reviewed the mission a hundred times, so I won't bore you with details. Colonel Max is a decorated C.O. and I'd be surprised if a single one of you hasn't heard his name. We owe it to him to retrieve him from the hands of the enemy and see him safely back to Orange Star, and this is how it's going to get done. Us.

"Every man and woman here," Sami continued, jabbing a finger at the floor, "has seen action, and this is certainly not the most dangerous mission we've been on. But that doesn't mean it's going to be any easier. Grabbing intel is one thing, but a rescue mission necessitates the safety of the detainee. As far as command is concerned, the Colonel's life is worth more than any of ours." That was a half-lie, made up on the spot to add some _oomph_ to the obligatory prep-talk. Of course, command – meaning Rachel – didn't hold Max's life higher than anyone else's, Sami included, but Sami figured it sounded appropriate. "We clear?"

And of course, the soldiers huddled in the APC's cramped hull nodded. No mumbled words, nothing half-committed. Special Forces, after all…

"Good. Our ride is scheduled to take off," Sami glanced at her wristwatch, "in four-zero minutes. The skies to Calciki will be secure, and if Halyon does its job Green Earth headquarters will be within our reach. And Colonel Max." She gave them a last look over, and then tipped her head. "Dismissed."

To a squad of Special Forces soldiers forty minutes out from a mission, "dismissed" really meant "stay on your toes." So the nine in front of her saluted and returned to checking their gear. The initial gear check, after all, was just one of many. War was often about controlling as many elements as possible, and there was no excuse for a misplaced piece of equipment or a loose strap in the middle of combat. Excuses meant death.

Sami turned, picked up her rifle and slung it across her shoulder, letting out a noiseless breath. As she turned, though, she caught her reflection in a lockerside mirror, and blinked.

It was the first time she'd really gotten a look at herself since… well, since Dorton. As expected, there were bluish-black rings under her eyes, and her face looked like it could use a wash. Otherwise there wasn't much to see, what with being suited up and all. Her hair was invisibly bundled under her helmet, and from head to toe she was covered in splotched gray fabric, dull gray joint guards, and gray straps and packs. Dressed for urban combat. If it'd been a while since she'd had to don full gear, it had been even longer since that gear had been urban.

The only thing that felt _right_ was her rifle. She was comfortable with it, even if it wasn't the lighter variety she preferred. Rifles were her constant companions, almost her closest friends. As close as the soldiers she was about to enter Calciki with, and there would be few friends where they were going. Sure, if everything went according to plan, Halyon's spearhead would have broken through the bulk of the Greens' defenses and secured the enemy's headquarters, but once on the inside no Oberons, no Direwolfs, and no one from command would be of any use.

Sami tilted her head to the side so that the rifle's barrel tip was visible in the mirror. _This is my rifle…_

"Zhang," she said.

"Ma'am?" Zhang stepped up next to her.

"Any word from the C.G.? Has Halyon entered the city proper?

"No ma'am. Not that I've heard."

She let out a breath through her nose. "Alright. Keep me posted. I'm assigning you that task."

In the reflection she saw Zhang dip his head and throw a salute. "Yes ma'am. Will do." Then he turned and made for the rear APC door. Sami watched him open the steel panel, step through, and close it behind him. The latch squeaked shut.

Sami closed her eyes and inhaled. Then exhaled. She repeated the cycle once, twice, drawing deep breaths each time. _In through the nose, out through the mouth_. Whatever nerves were left she wanted to calm. Just because one was a veteran soldier didn't mean one wasn't nervous before a mission.

At last she opened her eyes, turned and surveyed her squad once more. They were still busy checking and rechecking, helping one another with their backpacks. Sami knew she should be doing the same, if only to occupy herself before the mission.

_Forty minutes…_

(())

_This isn't a city_, Christoph thought.

And it wasn't, really. Didn't seem like one anymore. He'd been to Calciki often enough in his lifetime, and he remembered it as busy and bustling, even the outskirts between the suburbs and the core. Nothing at all like sleepy little Withersburg. Now, to his eyes, Calciki was deserted.

Christoph's squadron was leading Kilo company, rumbling in a staggered line down the four-lane Delinian Avenue, command tank number 19 fourth from the front. Given the lack of activity, his extension gave him a pretty clear view of the world outside. It wasn't a major road; no divider down the middle, just a double yellow line. Sidewalks on either side, though here and there they ended in abandoned construction zones and uncut grass. The buildings flanking their path were relatively tall but sparse. Some four and five stories but not squashed together like they would be farther in-city. More urban than Loch Haven and Withersburg.

It wasn't truly deserted, though. The Greens were out there somewhere, holed up in their makeshift bunkers and sandbag forts. Christoph wished they'd run across them already, but he knew the Greens wouldn't be that stupid. During their occupation they'd only had just enough boots on the ground to impose martial law, and now with a real threat hanging over their heads they couldn't afford to be spread so thin. Not that their MPs needed to enforce martial law, though. Those residents of Calciki that remained were undoubtedly holed up in basements and saferooms, squeezed into corners and cracks, praying that they would emerge untouched from the coming fire and destruction.

Christoph fidgeted in the hard metal of his commander's chair, fingers drumming his console. He wanted desperately to scan the rooftops, the windows, the alleyways, but that wasn't his job, nor would his extension be useful for that task. No, that was the infantry's job. Christoph swiveled the viewer round and looked beyond the last tank of his squadron. In the dying daylight, silhouetted against the western sky and between the background structures, he could make out helmeted figures running about, arms signaling to fellows, squads of soldiers moving from building to building. Halyon only had a company's worth of grunts and three companies of armor to assault Calciki with, which was just about the inverse ratio a prepared commander would have brought for urban combat. Luckily, though, the Greens were in the same boat, and had coughed up even fewer tanks.

Still, rarely had Christoph ever heard of an urban assault scenario that was engaged primarily by armor. Calciki would not come out of the fight unscathed.

"Captain," came Nybo's voice. "Cap, any sign of the Greens?"

Christoph backed off his viewer and shook his head. "No. Nothing from the scouts, and nothing from our flankers. How far to Green Earth HQ?"

Nybo tapped at his own personal terminal, a smaller piece than the commander's. "As the crow flies, sir, it's six klicks, but-"

"Yea, ain't that easy in a city. We'll get into the constrained areas soon enough, and then it'll be all right angle turns until we're there. Probably closer to eight klicks of driving. And the Greens won't be welcoming."

Nybo scratched under his chin strap. "If we get there, Cap."

Christoph's lips scrunched. "We'll get there." _Fucking Greens probably think they're so clever, even if Eagle's supposed to be letting us in with open arms._ Sami had advised that, despite all appearances, Halyon should expect fierce resistance. Eagle might want to end the war, but according to Sami, he couldn't exactly let his men lie down and take it. They had honor to uphold, a homeland to defend, and other such bullshit.

A Catch-22 for any commander, then. And in Christoph's opinion, Eagle was a piss-poor commander for trapping himself in that situation.

He gave his attention to his viewer again. Ahead of the group's first tank – number 20 – a squad of infantry filed into the closest left-corner building of a four-way intersection. Christoph's mental map told him it was the crossroads of Delinian and Coin Street. The last man disappeared into the building's dark interior while 20 still had a dozen yards before reaching the intersection itself.

Christoph keyed his mic, but before he could speak the infantry squad's radioman came through the inbound.

"Delta 8, this is Dagger One. Possibly activity on Coin, recommend you halt your squadron until we confirm."

Halt? Ordering his tanks to slow was one thing, but halting was another. Halting in the middle of a potential combat zone was almost never a good idea. _Who do these guys think they are?_ "Neg, Dagger One. Bad idea. We're pushing on, get me a confirmation ASAP."

"Not advised, Captain. There's movement but we're not sure if it's enemy-"

"Then quit jabbering and look!" Christoph snapped the connection. If the grunts hadn't spotted Greens by now, there was no use in his tanks taking their time. Either there were no Greens and it didn't matter, or there were and the OSA grunts would spend ten minutes trying to figure out what color their sandbags were.

He watched 20 edge closer to the intersection and amble around a traffic pole.

A crackle in his ear again. "Captain, watch-!"

Christoph didn't actually see the rocket. Just a fireball as it struck 20 at its gun's base, tearing off the barrel and sending it flying in two pieces through a bookstore window.

Just like that Christoph's mind shifted gears. There were two things he could do right then. He could hunker down, order his tanks to halt and wait for backup to ensure they safely eliminated the – presumably fortified – enemy position. Or he could continue, push his advance, try to overwhelm the Greens and force an Orange Star foothold into the city proper.

It wasn't a contest, really.

He flipped to the company-wide channel. "Kilo, Kilo, enemy contact! Let's move, stay on your toes!" Then he switched to address his squadron. "16 and 18, get out there and cover 20! 17, advance with us, go go!"

Not a moment later his orders were followed like clockwork. The two remaining forward tanks engaged their turbines and sped down Delinian Avenue, barrels swinging left to track the unseen Greens on Coin Street. As soon as the first got a clear view around 20's unmoving hulk, its cannon boomed, smoke washing over brick facades and the sheer vibration cracking window panes around the square. The second, 18, made clear in time to loose a follow-up shell down the way.

Then Dagger One came through again, sporadic gunfire in the background. "Delta, possible hit on enemy position. Too much smoke to tell damage."

"Then let's get in there before they recover. Fire at will!" He knew it wasn't normally his place to give the infantry orders, but if Orchid was still on schedule then Sami would be suiting up and was in no situation to relay instructions. Christoph had the authority to give live combat commands as he saw fit.

The response concurred. "Yessir! Dagger out."

There was hardly a rumble as 19 zipped down Delinian, 17 close behind. Ahead, 16 and 18 disappeared around the corner, charging down Coin, and along the lefthand sidewalk another couple infantry squads raced on, heads bowed in anticipation of falling concrete and mortar.

Two more booms sounded through 19's hull. More tank shells, and though it was always hard to determine the national origin of ordnance, Christoph was pretty sure those were Oberons on the business end. 16 and 18 engaging, most likely. Then there was another sound, a low cracking and rumble that cascaded into a brief earthquake, shaking Christoph in his seat. And then brown dust billowed from Coin.

Christoph's earpiece crackled loud static in his ear. Coughing too. "Shit," came a muffled voice. More coughing. "Whole bloody building's gone!"

19 treaded past number 20, the gunless tank wrenching itself into reverse to remove itself from its delicate position. Humming hydraulics over Christoph rotated 19's turret down Coin. Dust was still hanging in the air and rolling across the intersection. Christoph's lead tanks were swallowed by the brown cloak, but he figured out what happened anyway. "18, come in. What's it look like down there?"

"Squad of anti-tank infantry holed up in a five-story, sir. We took 'em out but either our round went wild or they blew charges. Damn thing nearly came down on top of us. Road's blocked, no way to get through easy."

Christoph was on autopilot now. Best to assume the Greens had brought that building down intentionally. Which meant there was only one other direct route to the city center: straight across the intersection, following Delinian.

Instantly he swiveled his viewer round to look down that very path, and caught it just in time. Green uniforms scurried into a townhouse a hundred meters out, a couple of them with larger weapons slung over their shoulders.

"Gunner, due north! Blue roof! Take it out! Driver, back it up!"

The gunner and driver were on their respective tasks before they even said, "Sir!" 19 jammed to a stop, engine to Christoph's rear whining as the treads made an immediate reversal. The hydraulics whirred-

Already there was a flash from a window and a lateral column of exhaust rocketed down Delinian, slamming into 20's retreating bulk before Christoph could track it. He didn't stop to note the Oberon's fate. There wasn't time.

"_Gunner!_"

"_On the waaaay!_"

19's cannon roared and hull shuddered, as Christoph had experienced so many times before. He barely managed to keep an idea of what was going on outside as his skull recovered from the abuse. He thought he saw the building's ground floor go up in flames. That was good enough. He tapped his mic and brought up a map on his terminal.

"Kilo, original route scrapped – we're taking Delinian Avenue all the way to 4th. Don't take precautions – all speed north. Coin is blocked, do not attempt to take it. Repeat, Coin is rubble. Punch it!"

_Yessirs_ came back. Some sounded nervy. The original plan hadn't called for the Delinian course because it was a clear shot to their objective, and therefore a much easier avenue on which the Greens could set up defenses. Deathtraps, in fact.

But Christoph was pretty sure they'd caught the first of the Greens unprepared. They hadn't anticipated his decision to shove onward when their Coin Street distraction disabled number 20. They'd probably gambled he would order his troops to hold until Halyon could safely sort the situation out.

_Well, they'd thought wrong. _

(())

Max was halfway through his sandwich when he heard boots pound down the hall outside his cell.

First, he swallowed. Then he ran his tongue through his gums, and glanced at the bolted steel door. And then back to his small meal of a partially eaten sandwich and MRE juice drink. It wasn't particularly hard to decide what to do.

He set his ham-and-bread on a paper towel and heaved himself up from the cot. He rubbed his nose, tilted his head, and listened. Nothing unusual, as far as he could tell in his confined world. But that wasn't real evidence. He took two short steps to the door, leaned over, and pressed his ear to the cold metal.

Outside there were voices. There were always voices. And noise. At every hour of every day there was always activity on some level of the psych ward-turned-HQ. Listening to it gave Max something to do at night, when he couldn't sleep. It was really all there was _to_ do. And considering that Eagle frequented the place, it probably had some strategic importance to Green Earth. The voices now, though, sounded a little louder and the footsteps a little more anxious. Which meant there might be something interesting going on.

Could be nothing, he knew. Max had virtually no news of the war, so anything could be happening out there, really. He supposed that unknown factor was what prompted him to listen in the first place. Even if the talk was Erdsprech, he wanted to hear _something_.

Sounded like there were two men speaking with one another in tones neither hushed nor shouted. Then someone knocked on a door, wooden maybe. It was hard to tell through the thick steel. There was more excited chattering until Max heard the creak of hinges and a third party joined the conversation.

Even through the medium of foreign language, Max tagged the new voice as Eagle. The flyboy hadn't stopped by in, well, a while. Maybe a week or so. Max hadn't had any real conversation since then, and this was maybe as close as he was gonna get.

The three-way exchange was made up of short, pointed sentences. Eagle hammered out questions. The responses were simple: yes and no. Didn't take a linguistic genius to figure out which was which. Then the relaying of instructions, a pair of heel clicks, and finally the sound of boots clapping away. These were all in a language Max understood very clearly. A military language, universal in all armies and in all army men. A combat soldier quickly learned to listen to his or her surroundings, and as a Colonel, Max was fluent.

When the boots faded down the hall, Max worked his gums, raised his fist, and pounded on the door. Some shuffling, then calm, slow footsteps neared. There was a metal click as the slot in front of his face slid open, and Max found himself the subject of a pair of cold, black eyes.

He grinned, though Eagle couldn't possibly notice. It was a small reprieve to see even part of a familiar face again. "Hey Eagle."

"Max. Please make it quick."

"Just wanted to know what's happening. Nothing gets your men riled up like they are now."

The eyes closed, and Eagle sighed. "I can't tell you that, Max. Protocol, you see. Sorry." Mechanical words, spoken as statements of fact. Max knew better.

"Can't, or shouldn't?"

Eagle's eyes opened. For a moment they retained their hardness, their coldness. Almost like he was annoyed at the question. Then they relented, brow losing a few wrinkles, eyelids relaxing. The Green Earth commander glanced both ways down the corridor before turning back to Max.

"Your friends are coming."

(())

"Colonel."

Sami looked. Zhang was in the APC's open doorway, standing to one side. His body language told the rest. Seemed a bit early, but it couldn't be helped.

She nodded and turned to her soldiers. "Alright! Our ride's ready, let's move out!"

They filed from the APC, rifles in front and angled down, Sami in the lead. As they picked up a jogging pace Zhang took up step next to her.

"Halyon's engaged then?" Sami asked. "How secure is their position?"

"Their position is nonexistent. Kilo's still driving for the Greens' headquarters. They're four klicks out."

She gave him a look. Zhang visibly bit his lip. "They're not even in sight of Green Earth HQ?"

"No ma'am. I heard something about a roadblock, and Kilo has to take an alternate route. Straight up Delinian Avenue. It's more dangerous, but if they succeed they'll be there sooner. So we need to move now."

Sami's lips moved silently as she did some rough calculations in her head. "Echo and Charlie won't meet them in time. It'll be Kilo alone until they push through. What about-" She cut herself off. Zhang wouldn't know even if she asked. So instead she told him, "Stay with the squad, I'll be right back." And with that she made a tangent from the line and jogged for the command APC.

It wasn't far, but the pressure of time was weighing on her neck. She slung her rifle, opened the carrier's door and stepped in, immediately scanning for Rachel's red hat. Wasn't much room inside but it took her a second to spot the CG.

"Commander!"

The hat swiveled like a beacon, and Rachel emerged hobbling from the small crowd. "Sami?"

She nodded. "I heard about Kilo. How close is Black Hole to their objective?"

Rachel looked over her shoulder and pointed to a fixed wall monitor. "I thought the same thing. Seven kilometers. No contact yet."

"Will they make it in time to hook up with Kilo?"

The CG looked back at Sami. "If they don't encounter heavy resistance, yes. I've ordered what aircraft we can spare to aid in their push but I doubt air support will be of much use to them."

"Ok. My mission is still a go." It was less a question and more a statement.

"Yes, and it's is all the more urgent. You've got to get in there as soon as you can."

Sami nodded again and turned to leave.

"Sami," Rachel said after her, "Good luck."

(())

"_Keep moving!_"

That was the only thing Christoph could think of, between 19's pounding gun and the detonations outside. _Keep moving._ There were no other options. Staying in place was death. _God_, his head hurt. Felt like there were Greens everywhere, closing in, swarming Kilo's forces. Impossible, yes, since the enemy was actually outnumbered, but that's how it seemed. Thankfully, Delinian Avenue was wide enough to maneuver on, at least for another kilometer. But it narrowed after that.

The world through Christoph's shaking viewer was unstable. Rifles spat from windows, doorways, crumbled holes in demolished walls, anywhere there was cover. Green Earth forces uproad exchanged fire with Orange Star infantrymen, both sides holed up in swiftly deteriorating structures, behind live tanks and burned cars. As he scanned, he saw one of those very Lynx inching out from an alleyway, trying to get enough room to angle its barrel south.

"Gunner, medium at 11 o'clock!"

"Got it!"

"FIRE!"

19's gun reported, blasting Christoph's ears and spitting smoke and another shell casing into the cabin. Before anyone had confirmed a hit, Nybo jammed the handle and was sliding another sabot into the loading mechanism. He slapped the arming lever and covered his ears.

But it wasn't necessary, not yet. Infrared told Christoph the target Lynx was dead. 19's round had wedged itself in the turret's base and blown it right off. Instead he turned his attention to one of the Green-occupied buildings, trying to track movement even as his tank rumbled forward.

"Captain, red brick three-story, righthand side! Anti-tank gear!" Nybo said.

Christoph snapped his viewer around. "Tracking, 380 meters! Gunner get my bead!"

"Identified!"

Before Christoph could give the order, there was a momentary blaze from the structure's doorway. Christoph's heart stopped, eyes widened. Then a relieving _kung_ reverberated through the hull.

Glancing shot. Christoph let his breath go and moved into action. "Vision's obscured, still got trajectory! Gunner, take it!"

Again 19's cannon spoke for its crew, finding the offending structure and blowing its contents across the street. Firing residue in the tank was starting to get thick, though. A few more rounds and it'd be too thick to suck air, much less see.

"Driver, keep us moving forward – give the grunts cover," Christoph instructed. Then he took the chance to move his viewer off the road and swivel it round back. A dozen or more squads of infantry were visible, scuttering behind Oberons and between buildings, the ones behind providing covering fire for those in front. There was probably another half platoon's worth of grunts inside buildings and alleyways, pushing the advance in those areas that were less accessible to Halyon's armor.

"16, 18, we'll provide the shield!"

One of them responded, "16's gone, sir!"

Christoph blinked. _16 gone. Shit._ _Two of five gone already_. "17, move up, take a forward position! We need to keep the infantry covered! Drive!"

There was another explosion somewhere close, tank round or antiarmor, Christoph couldn't tell which. A more distant one followed. Hopefully a retaliatory shot.

Then someone said, "Choppers!"

(())

If there was one good thing about a helmet other than its protection, Sami mused, it was that it kept her hair in line.

The Reynault was open to air, wind thrashing through the hold, the chopper itself jostling and vibrating around the ten soldiers it hosted: two fastened in seats within and four on either side, sitting on each doorway's lip, legs dangling over rooftops and trees whizzing by not fifty feet below.

Sami was one of those dangling. She was on the right side, squeezed to the very left of her three fellows. If someone were to follow her gaze, they might assume she was watching the world fly past underneath, or judging their speed, or perhaps frozen in terror.

But her mind was elsewhere.

Her contemplation of her hair was just an attempted distraction, a thought forced among the myriad in her head. A weak effort at diverting her own attentions. It didn't work.

The Reynault flew onward, Calciki looming close.

_This is just like any other mission. I have done this before. I have extracted prisoners. I have captured enemies. I have killed men without knowing their names, without remembering their faces._

_So why is this difficult?_

In a way, it wasn't difficult. From the moment she'd accepted Rachel's assignment to retrieve Max, her body had worked on autopilot. Physically, she went through all the motions in perfect sequence, with perfect performance. No mistakes, no piece of gear misplaced, no strap left undone. But a nagging remained in the back of her head, always there, always reminding. And not reminding her of one thing, but of many things. Running with Christoph from Orange Star HQ. The battle at Loch Haven. Dorton City. Kullins. Lash.

Eagle.

_It was just a dream._

Some people said that dreams have meaning. That one could interpret one's dreams and divine the future, make decisions and crap like that. Sami more readily believed the scientist's explanation: that dreams were the result of one's processing of life experiences. That most dreams went unremembered as a recycling of the day's events. It was the bizarre ones that we remembered, and the bizarre stemmed from older memories, feelings, and experiences that had been changed by time and the error associated with weeks and years.

But it didn't make her feel any better.

_This is just like any other mission. So why is it difficult?_

And in many ways it was. Things _were _difficult. She had never fought against Green Earth after they had been such close allies. That wasn't an excuse, though. Every veteran in the OSA and OSAF and OSN was experiencing those feelings. Some had good friends among the Greens, and they were able to cope.

What, then? Christoph's change had struck her as well. He was such a promising young officer. In a way, he reminded Sami of herself when she was at his rank. Determined, resourceful, well-liked among his men, and he'd resisted becoming just another cog in the military machine. Then Loch Haven happened. It was obvious he wasn't quite the same after that. Still an effective leader no doubt, but experience told Sami to keep an eye on soldiers who go through traumatic experiences, and to pull them from the field if necessary.

Sami had never been unprepared when she'd gone through trauma, like Christoph had. She'd seen so many more horrors than he, sure, but in increments. The comparison between the old captain and the new one was like night and day.

And that was what scared her.

Her relationship to Eagle was becoming more twisted with each mission, each battle, each bullet. She was a Lieutenant Colonel of the Orange Star Armed Forces, and her sworn duty was to protect her country from any foe. Only now the foe was Eagle, and her task was to kill those who fought for him. Rationally she knew she wasn't killing _him_, but the irrational mind underneath made the connection anyway. It was more of a strain every day, and it took more effort to bury it. And if the floor underneath gave way…

That was it, then. That idea of _giving way_, of being unable to cope any longer, of breaking down, that was what she feared. She feared that she would end up like Christoph. Shattered and remade into something else, someone different. And she had no idea if such a person could be repaired.

Behind her someone yelled, "Ten minutes to drop!"

(())

Sepp lay prone in the corner, parallel to the wall, rifle steady and business end pointed at the room's jagged opening. He'd been there for a while, but he wasn't about to just up and leave. Not since he'd first seen the fireworks.

It was right down the road, by his reckoning. He saw smoke and clouds rising up about a klick away, heard the explosions. Heavy fighting, to be sure. And given there was a war on, it wasn't hard to connect the dots and assume Orange Star was assaulting Calciki.

_About damn time._

Which, of course, it wasn't. It was actually a very premature attack, but Sepp wouldn't complain. It meant friendly forces were nearby, and that meant he and Bannon were closer to rescue with each passing moment.

He glanced left at his partner. Bannon crouched halfway in the doorframe leading to the townhouse stairway hall, his own rifle angled down but arms tense, ready to hoist it at the drop of a pin. His was about as concealed as he could get. The expression written on his face was close to stoic, but his eyes held a glint that tweaked his rocky expression just a tad. Excited, he was. They both were. Excited by fear and the prospect of safety at the same time.

A low rumble grew, then faded.

"Lieutenant?" Bannon whispered.

"Mm?" Sepp answered while keeping his eyes on the hole.

"That's gotta be our boys, yea?"

Sepp licked his dry lips, but his tongue was dry too. "Yep. Come to see what happened to ol' Bravo."

Bannon didn't answer. There was a gap, filled by distant booms and rattling gunfire. There might've been shapes moving way downroad, but Sepp's view didn't afford much of the street, and what it did was blocked by debris and chassis a couple hundred meters off.

The Greens hadn't stumbled across them yet, thank God. They'd zipped right past and set up camp farther along the road – maybe they didn't think much of Sepp and Bannon's hiding spot. Well, that was fine with Sepp. Sometimes he'd see one of 'em from his little vantage point, running crouched from a doorstep, hand on helmet like they were expecting the sky to cave in. That was as close as it had gotten, and as close as Sepp wanted it to get.

So it wasn't really a surprise when an explosion ripped through something close by.

Sepp ducked, felt the detonation pound his eardrums and the shock wave pass through his body. It wouldn't last, though. He'd felt it all before.

And it didn't. He looked up, coughed, blinked, and found his world much the same as it had been. Judging by the force it'd been either very powerful or very near, and since a tank round was the most likely culprit, that meant near. Then he looked at Bannon, who hadn't budged an inch. Sepp nodded, gave Bannon the hand signal that meant _stay the fuck where you are_, and slowly crawled out of his prone position and up to his knees. Carefully, he peered out the window.

A roadsign had splintered and fallen. The blue plate was still intact and read "Delinian-something." A new wound was gouged in a roof across the street, too. The tiles crumbled as he watched. A couple Greens scattered from the building's cloudy ground floor like ants from a flood. There was yelling in Erdsprech, something about orange and tanks. Made Sepp grin.

He dared to lean his helmeted head out the window just a tad, and look south. As he did, one of the charred cars blocking the road was smashed aside by a great, hulking, tan war machine.

Then choppers buzzed overhead.

(())

"Shit shit _shit!_ Where the fuck is our air support?" Nybo yelled.

Christoph hammered his terminal. "_Orchid, come in, this is Delta 8, we have enemy choppers inbound, request immediate support!_"

"Delta, this is Orchid. We're rerouting the Hawkeyes, hold tight."

The first round of missiles came raining down. Big plumes soared over 19 and connected with targets downrange. Kilo's men.

_Hold tight. That's all they have to say?_ He fumbled for the proper switch. 19 was zigzagging, driver desperate to avoid becoming the victim of an anti-tank missile. Christoph managed to find the button he was looking for. "Dagger One, Dagger One, this is Delta, relay these orders! All infantry, fire on the choppers! I repeat, fire on the choppers! Push 'em off till we get our air cover! Armor will take care of the ground troops!"

He might've heard a _yessir,_ but it didn't matter. His men were sitting ducks on Delinian Avenue. It was open, straight and wide…

But it didn't stay wide. Christoph wasn't sure why it'd skipped his mind.

"Kilo, new orders: all speed down Delinian, go for grid niner-six-niner, eight-six-six!"

His own gunner came through. "Sir, that'll put us right in the middle of the Greens' infantry."

Christoph scowled. "It's either face them or the choppers, take your pick."

"Delta 8," now the crackling of Dagger, "we advise-"

"Fuck your advice! If we don't do this, we are dead, do you understand me?"

A pause. Then, "Understood, sir."

They couldn't retreat. Not now. A retreat would be clumsy and chaotic. They were a lot farther in-city than the Greens had probably been prepared for. The presence of the choppers gave it away – the buzzards were deadly enough to his Oberons, sure, but a cityscape was an ideal environment for friendly fire to take its toll. Everyone was packed very, very close. The Greens were taking a risk. _Well_, Christoph thought, _so am I._

Through his extension he caught a glimpse of the double bubble canopy and stub wings of a Green Earth attack helicopter. Tornados, they were called. It strafed high across the breadth of Delinian, nose angled dangerously down. It wasn't aiming at 19. But it was probably aiming at someone else. That guess was confirmed as it loosed another missile that impacted somewhere behind 19.

"I think Group 26 is gone, sir," Nybo said.

19's driver accelerated, the Oberon's turbine roaring as it jumped forward. Christoph took a quick glance with the viewer and saw 17 and 18 on his left flank. Farther back more elements of Kilo scrambled, all speeding north. The infantry were left to find their own shelters, and most took up refuge in business and townhouses rather than risk it in the open. Rifles flared at the sky, forcing the Green Earth choppers to zip around like hornets.

"Delta 1, report in," Christoph ordered.

"Delta 1 here, sir," the radio responded.

No static. Good. Meant they were close, or not yet tied up. "I want you to take the lead. Get up here!"

"Yes, sir."

What was left of Christoph's squadron was approaching the narrowing point of Delinian, where it went from four lanes to two. The buildings got more squashed, roofs stairwaying up to five, six, seven stories. They were entering the city's core, Christoph guessed. Soon enough they'd be in the shadows of high-rises.

"Delta 1's close, sir," Nybo reported. His back was hunched, eyes set to his viewer in concentration.

Christoph looked too, and was glad he couldn't hear.

The distinctive round shapes of Kilo's Neotank squadron wove between Oberons and infantry alike, sometimes skirting within a foot or two of friendly units. With a top speed of 55 miles per hour, Neotanks were generally considered to be the fastest armored vehicles on the modern battlefield, and Christoph always believed it when he saw them. But their presence didn't cool his nerves.

Part of it was because they didn't _roll _as much as _scoot_. Strange balls fixed in maneuverable drive shafts substituted for wheels, granting the Neotank a deftness unmatched. As the first of Delta 1's squadron passed between 19 and 17, Christoph could hear the screech that was its engine. It made his Oberon's turbine sound like a songbird.

"Delta 1 here, sir. What are your orders?"

"Just stay in front. Take out infantry when you see 'em. Your armor can soak up most of what they're throwing at us." With that, Christoph cut his mic.

Somehow, over the din of battle, he heard Nybo say, "I sure hope they can."

(())

A Tornado loosed another missile, yellow blaze streaking between buildings and – quite completely – annihilating an Oberon in a white-hot fireball a half klick downroad. Shards of metal splintered on walls and asphalt, slicing through an unlucky Green Earth soldier who'd been too far into the action. Rattling gunfire sounded within spitting distance. If Sepp didn't have a clear view to the ground floor of his refuge he might've thought the Greens were right below them. He tried to pop his ears but it didn't help. The world was just too damn loud.

"Lieutenant!" Bannon half-yelled. "Keep your head down! Sir!"

But Sepp ignored him. Anyone looking in the right direction would see his gray helmet, sure, but they would also have more important things to worry about. Hovering Tornados, for example, or charging Oberons.

Seemed like suicide, the tanks' advance, but Sepp guessed they had their orders, and those orders had to have a reason. He'd help 'em out, too, if given the chance. Maybe if one of the choppers got a little lower…

He peeked over the windowsill. Another speeding Oberon popped its smoke grenades, summoning a white cloud into existence in the middle of Delinian. Didn't help. A bolt from the sky disappeared into the thick smoke and detonated a split second later, augmented by the additional force of ignited jet fuel and spare HEAT rounds. Then an ovoid shape plunged through the grayish white. A Neotank. Its stubby cannon discharged with a _koom_, shell connecting with a building full of riflemen.

Sepp looked down. Green caps poked through windows, doorways, anywhere there was cover. Two enemy soldiers huddled behind the carcass of a dead Bravo tank, alternating potshots. Then another head appeared in a broken window across the way, the same floor level as Sepp. The head's owner brought a long, metal tube to bear over his shoulder…

Sepp wasn't quite sure what he was doing, beyond the fact that his rifle was now resting on the sill. Before he could think about it rationally, he had the iron sights lined up on his target.

Bannon cried, "Lieutenant!"

_Crack!_

The Green's head jerked. His anti-tank weapon rolled from his shoulder, and he fell from view.

As soon as he confirmed the kill, Sepp dropped prone. He rolled over to look at Bannon, who was apparently trying to make himself smaller than he actually was.

"What'd you go and do that for, sir?" Bannon asked, sweat shining on his brow.

Sepp grinned, and shrugged. "We're soldiers, ain't we?"

(())

Christoph watched two choppers unleash their final missiles before sidewinding away to the north. Perplexing, maybe, but definitely welcome. _They must know something I don't._

"Orchid, Delta 8. How about that air cover?"

"Delta, Hawkeyes are inbound. They'll have your position in range in ten-zero seconds."

Christoph's lip twitched. _Fuckers are getting away. Can't answer for the deaths they've caused. I see how it is._

While he frowned, though, Nybo grinned. "Air cover is here, Cap," said the loader. "Not a moment too soon."

"More like moment too late," Christoph said.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," he snapped. They were in the two-lane zone now, and he ordered 19's driver to slow. A few moments later 17 and 18 did the same. Christoph scanned north, looking for signs of the enemy.

The fight wasn't over. Small arms fire continued, and tank rounds pounded both ways. He could make out a trio of Lynx up ahead at a T-intersection, ready to meet two oncoming Neotanks, the Orange Star machines quickly pulling away from the rest of Kilo. The Green Earth mediums wouldn't stand a chance against Neos, but they stood their ground anyway.

"Nybo, keep an eye out for boots. Delta 1 will take care of their armor."

As he said it, there was another _kung_, much heavier and louder than before that rattled Christoph to his bones. Took all his sense of balance to keep his bearings. He grabbed a rung and steadied himself. _Two times lucky. Damn lucky._

But as he retrieved his viewer he realized 19's luck really wasn't. Nothing but black greeted his eyes.

"Fuck. Viewer's gone."

Nybo waved. "I've still got mine, sir, I can-"

But Christoph wasn't listening. Nor was he thinking. He slapped away the viewer, got one foot under him and pushed off his seat, hands groping for the metal hatch above. He found it, slammed the latch open, and pushed.

Chaos washed over his ears. It was impossible to describe the world outside, even if Christoph only peeked over the hatch's edge. It made 19's cabin seem tame and simple. Heavy automatic fire pinged from metal hulls, cut ribbons in brick, smashed apart anything softer than concrete. The cracking detonations of tank shells cycled without reason, without rhythm, and the overdue Hawkeyes screamed overhead, flying low, chasing the departed Tornados. None of it masked the sound of the Neotanks firing. Christoph's headset and helmet did nothing to mute it all.

Through his earphones, Nybo screamed, "_Captain, what the hell are you doing?"_

But Christoph didn't answer directly. It wasn't Nybo's job to understand what he was doing, or why. He was Kilo's commander, and he couldn't command blind. "Just shut up and take orders!" he yelled back. "Scan for the enemy!" He was pretty sure that's what he'd said. He couldn't hear his own voice. And he assumed the response was a _yessir._

"Good, now…"

He stopped. There was a helmet poking out the upper story window of a building on the road's right side, about twenty meters ahead. Christoph almost ordered 19's gunner to take out the structure. Almost. But there was something about it that caught his eye…

And then he realized the helmet was gray, not green.

(())

"Hell yes! Over here!" Sepp shouted. He lifted himself up a bit more, waved over the windowsill. But not out the window. Didn't want Greens upstreet seeing.

Bannon scurried over, still crouched. "They see us, sir?"

"I think so." Sepp confirmed. He waved more frantically, "Hey!"

Now Bannon peeked through the broken window, trying to get a view past Sepp's wild arm. "That Oberon? Why the hell's the commander pokin' his head out in the middle of this shitstorm?"

"No fuckin' clue, but we're lucky he spotted us. I_ think_ he spotted us. Hey, yea! Up here! Get us the fuck out!"

Despite all the hell he'd been through, despite all the bad luck he'd been unfortunate enough to receive, Sepp grinned wide. He was damn happy to at least know friendly forces were nearby.

The tank cruised closer, still maintaining a decent speed down Delinian, but the commander definitely saw Sepp. He was staring right at him, in fact. And Sepp was staring back…

Then he whispered, "Holy shit."

(())

"Holy shit," Christoph whispered.

"Sorry sir, I just got static. What was that?" Nybo said.

Christoph blinked. He knew his mouth was open but he didn't care. The face he saw was like one from a dream. A surreal dream.

"Sepp?"

His earphones chattered again. "Sir?"

But he just stared, his own head barely above the hatch's rim as 19 continued along the road. The half-destroyed, collapsing, rubble-strewn structure that apparently housed a ghost was fast approaching. And all he could do was stare.

_Impossible._

Bravo was gone. There had been no communications with any of its superior officers, with any of Christoph's friends. Roma, Sigfried, Sepp. Nothing. Kullins had sent them to their deaths and gotten away with it.

He remembered feeling such betrayal, such _hatred,_ not only at Major Kullins but at the whole world. Then the cold anger. Then his conclusions about the twin shams of justice and altruism. About God.

And all of it washed over him again, which only confused him more.

_How…?_

Ambivalence replaced confidence. Christoph suddenly felt weak, unsure, and lacking control. No control. No control in the middle of a war, in the heart of a battle, at the very pinnacle of conflict and chaos. There was nothing beyond this. Nothing could be more uncontrollable than the world right now, save insanity itself. And insanity was nothing, so there was truly nothing more to be had.

Then, for the first time he noticed the charred remains of a tank, upside-down and halfway on the sidewalk. An Oberon. The evidence stared him in the face. There were survivors of Bravo's suicide. Soldiers were still breathing. There was reason to be relieved! To forget Kullins' transgressions-

_No._

He couldn't be forgiven. Even if Rachel did, even if Sami didn't care, even if Kullins would get away with his rank, his status, and his responsibilities all intact, Christoph could not forgive him. And that was his fuel.

_I will not lose control._

He was a commander. _The_ commander. The Captain of Kilo Company, the lynchpin of Halyon Force. If he fell apart now… if he fell apart, there would be no justice.

And then he realized what he had to do.

"_Your orders, sir?_" Isaac Nybo asked of him.

And Christoph Jorn answered, "Push forward."

(())

"He saw us, right Lieutenant?"

Sepp worked his lips. "Yea. Yea, I think so." _You think so? Great assurance, Sepp._

"Didn't even nod or wave," Bannon pressed.

"He's got more important things to do, private. He probably told his crew, or someone better equipped to pick us up." Sepp forced another grin and looked over his shoulder at his gunner. "Besides, the tank'd get cramped with all of us, right?"

Bannon looked at him. Then he looked outside, down to the Oberon that was rolling past and up the street. "Yea. I guess so sir. I hope so."

Sepp turned away. As he did he let his grin slip. Something didn't feel right. That was _definitely_ Christoph. No two ways about it. And Christoph _would_ have at least nodded or waved. Let them know they'd be safe, get them back to friendly lines. He'd always been that kind of officer towards his men – a good leader, one who made sure everything went right.

But he found himself sharing Bannon's hope as Christoph's Oberon reached the three-way intersection at the end of Delinian Avenue, made a left, and followed the disappeared Neotanks with the rest of the squadron in tow.


	20. The Wooden Mallet

Sami had never experienced the scene that lay before her now.

Below her, Calciki burned.

The smell filled her lungs. She couldn't see all the fires, but they were still impossible to miss. Big, fat columns of ash-black smoke billowed from nearly every major section of the city's southern half. To the west and east there were larger pockets of flame, and to the north the whole length of what she guessed was Delinian Avenue was a stretch of smoldering black clouds. So were all the major roads near it. Where Kilo was, or had been.

Plumes that marked detonations burst in Calciki's eastern areas. Charlie's and Echo's domains. Combat was joined, and it was not light.

But, curiously, there was relatively little activity to the west.

Sami was standing in the Reynault's hold now, holding a roof rung and leaning over the row of Special Forces soldiers still sitting on the doorway's lip. She stared. They all did. It wasn't shocking or disturbing, but it was different. Sobering. Full of death and destruction.

_So much waste._ And even as she thought it, she chided herself. _Not like it's any different when you're on the ground, girl. You can just see more of it up here._

She pushed away, doing a strange waltz with her boots on the floor and hands on ceiling rungs as she made for the pilots' cabin. She briefly wondered what chopper pilots thought of war, from their platforms in the clouds. Did they think of it differently? Were they disconnected from the devastation and loss? Or were they, in fact, more conscious because of how much they witnessed? Of the sheer scale?

She leaned between their seats and tapped one on the shoulder. "Your radio," she yelled over the thumping rotors while holding her hand to her ear in signal. The pilot retrieved an auxiliary headset from the center console and handed it to her. Sami unstrapped her helmet, slipped on the earphones, and leaned over to key the proper channel.

"Tango 8, this is Zebra Three-Two. What's your status?"

"This is Tango 8." Even via radio, Griffith's rough voice was unmistakable. "Charlie and Echo Companies are bogged down. Enemy armor has a considerable presence over here. We're not three klicks inside the city yet."

Sami cursed. Not good. "Understood Tango 8. Do you anticipate breaking through anytime soon?"

"Negative, Zebra. Without infantry support this will be a slugfest. We can win, but the urban environment is drawing it out."

"Ok, Tango. Zebra out."

She switched channels again.

"Whiskey 8, come in Whiskey 8. This is Zebra Three-Two."

If there was ever evidence that Black Hole tech wasn't meant to work with "standard" equipment, it was presented in the strange resonance that came through. That eerie, subtle screech hovered underneath the static. Whoever it was that answered – Black Hole's infantry CO – had voice like a hollow drum. "Zebra, contact."

Sami had to think. Black Hole used different phonetics and terminology. "Whiskey, report. Progress?"

"Minimal resistance. Enemy casualties reported at thirteen… ne …squad. Sided casualties zero."

_Sided casualties…?_ Right, friendly. _Sided_ meant _friendly._ "Ok. How close to the objective?"

"Logistics NCO estimates one-point-three kilometers. Engagement in five minutes."

Sami exhaled. "Make it three. Kilo Company is already there. Zebra out." She slipped the headset off and returned it to the console. Didn't want to talk to the Black Hole grunts any more than she had to. Then she replaced her helmet, turned, and rapped her knuckles on the ceiling.

The squad members brought their legs back into the hold and stood, forming two straight lines of four, with Zhang in the middle at one end and Sami at the other. They all turned to face Sami. She kept her expression steady and gave each line a nod. Then she set her feet wide to steady herself and patted her shoulders. "Ready check! Sound off!"

"Hutchins okay!"

"Ishiot okay!"

"Bishop okay!"

They repeated the process they'd done a half hour before. Down one line, then up the other. As they did so Sami felt the Reynault begin its descent. A shadow passed over the helicopter, and out of the corner of her eye Sami saw a moving wall of glass. As the chopper skirted farther in-city, the wall receded, and the whole width of a skyscraper came into view.

Zhang signaled his readiness. Sami patted her shoulders again and yelled, "Lead okay!" Then she turned to look through the cockpit panes.

They dropped altitude until the chopper was about twenty feet above the six- and seven-story establishments, yet hemmed in on all sides by office buildings. The lower floors of the skyscrapers were marred by shattered panels, and the upper ones by exposed steel supports, paint and surfacing stripped away by rogue aircraft missiles.

As if in acknowledgement three Hawkeyes arced overhead and banked away to the east.

Again, Sami got the attention of the pilot. "Check out Kilo's situation. Is it safe for us to drop?"

"Just did, Colonel," he hollered. "Kilo's fighting something fierce at Green Earth HQ, and they say it's not safe to go yet. I was gonna circle back and request a couple Hawkeyes for escort until we can make a flyover."

Sami squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open. _Damn it, nothing is going according to plan_. Nothing ever did. Plans were rough outlines, no more. And they could be a lot less.

"Scratch that. We have to go. Otherwise we risk giving the Greens enough time to remove Colonel Max and escape."

The pilot nodded sharply. No sign of worry. _Finally, a vet._ "Yes ma'am. I'll look for a place to drop you and your boys off."

"Good." She glanced at the man's shoulder insignia. "Warrant, don't put us in the line of fire for the sake of getting close. Find a safe spot."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Reynault swooped left and passed over progressively larger streets. Up ahead there was a four-lane road that narrowed into two lanes. Delinian Avenue. She pointed. "Somewhere along there."

The pilot picked the chopper up a bit to rise over a smoke cloud from a ruined tank, which gave Sami a clearer view of what lay beyond Delinian's northern termination at 4th street.

An open area rose among the urban sprawl, a series of crisscrossing roads spaced among small patches of grass and walkways. Right in the middle squatted a big, short building, only two stories tall but covering an area the size of a high school. Its stubby structural wings and overall design made it look like a flattened turtle, really, and it sat in a roughly rectangular area that was sunk eight or ten feet below ground level, which made the turtle look like it was in an empty tub. But regardless of what images it invoked, Sami recognized it instantly.

"That's their headquarters," she said.

They flew over the tail end of Kilo, those Oberons bringing up the rear. Ahead where 4th met Hope Square – the square hosting the HQ – Sami could see that Kilo's forces had fanned out. They were heavily engaged already, trading tank rounds with the Green Earth defenders. Specks of movement interspersed among the vehicles told Sami where the infantry were. Where her troops were.

Sami broke her gaze and searched for the tallest roof she could find. But the pilot had already taken up that task and maneuvered the Reynault towards a white six-story.

Then a beeping filled the cabin. Sami instinctively grabbed ceiling rungs.

The pilot jammed his controls hard to the right. "Shit! _Incoming! Drop flares!_"

Sami dared to look out the hold's open door as the inertia swayed everyone in the chopper. First she saw the white exhaust trail of a SAM. Then she was almost blinded when the Reynault released its package of countermeasures. There was series of loud hissing sounds as the flares shot away and the whine of the straining chopper engine as it struggled to comply with the pilot's sudden maneuvers. But when the foreign missile exploded, the Reynault was still airborne. And everyone was still alive.

"Shit," the pilot repeated. "We're ok. For now." He looked over his shoulder at Sami. "Don't think we want get that close, ma'am."

"No," she said. "No, we don't. Get Kilo on the line."

(())

Christoph saw the infantry-launched SAM streak across the square with the express intent of destroying that Orange Star transport chopper a half klick back. The chopper banked away harshly in a desperate attempt to flee from its attacker. Flares spewed from its belly, and for a moment the Reynault sported the likeness of two forward-swept wings tipped by floodlights. Countermeasures.

And they were effective. The missile apparently found more interesting prey among them and impacted harmlessly in an alley, the blast lost and mostly obscured by surrounding buildings.

There was no time to see what the Reynault did after that. It wasn't Christoph's responsibility to babysit. But, he reflected, if it held Sami's squad, then it sort of was.

His earphones fuzzed. "Capt… this….three-two. Request you and… men… driv…"

Christoph ducked his head back in 19 but didn't sit. The din outside didn't get much softer. It was enough, though. "This is Delta, did not get that last message. Please repeat, over."

This time Sami's voice came in much clearer, which only confirmed Christoph's speculations about the helicopter. "I repeat, this is Zebra Three-Two. Captain, I am requesting you and your armor make a strong push around the enemy's headquarters. West side will-"

19's gun boomed. Someone inside yelled, "Sabot!"

Christoph scowled. "Zebra, did not hear your last statement. We _do not_ have the footing to execute a pincer attack. Repeat, we _cannot_ execute a pincer."

"I said: you don't need to. Push to the right, around the eastern perimeter. Whiskey and Victor will assault from the south-west and take the other side."

Christoph straightened up and looked outside again. His tanks were flowing into the square, taking up positions from which they could actually fire. The infantry were flanking his armor, primarily crawling up the eastern edge of Hope Square, where the decorative bushes, trees, and rocks were a bit thicker. They were making slow progress through and around the buildings there too. The bottleneck from 4th was too narrow to allow any sort of countryside-like attack wave. If he complied with Sami's orders, his troops would be assaulting a fortified enemy position piecemeal.

He swung around towards the HQ. There were makeshift bunkers at its southwest and northeast corners that housed a few squads of enemy infantry apiece. He'd ordered Kilo to pound them to dust but they'd been built into the landscape and sub-ground architecture. His Oberons were fighting the earth itself. Behind those fortified positions was the enemy armor. Lynx, mostly, but Jackals too.

And the torrential storms of steel being hurled either way made the empty hundred yards between the two factions a deathzone.

He ducked back. "Zebra, neg! Neg! We need more time to take out enemy positions. And I don't see those fucking groundhogs yet!"

"Look west, Christoph."

And, tentatively, he did.

The rounded profiles that distinguished Black Hole armor appeared from streets and roads from the southwest, four hundred or so meters off, emerging between the shadows of office buildings. First came two squadrons of Titan mediums, guns reporting, the tanks themselves spreading into an irregular diamond formation. Then two more squadrons of Imperial light tanks that maneuvered to the north under the protection of their larger cousins.

A window on one of the office buildings' fourth floor shattered almost inexplicably. Almost. Dual rockets shot straight and true from there, impacting on the roof of one of the Greens' bunkers.

Christoph watched the arrival of the groundhog companies, lips set tight and brow furrowed. _We don't need them. We can do this-_

"Captain, make your push!"

"I-"

"That's an order!"

For some reason Sami's tone struck him. He'd been _giving_ orders the entire operation, not receiving them. He'd almost forgotten himself. But he couldn't say no, of course. It was his duty.

"Yes, ma'am."

He found the auxiliary radio console under the hatch's rim and played with its buttons. Finally he found the one he wanted.

"Kilo, Delta 8 here. All speed north."

(())

Sepp cursed himself. _This is stupid. Why are we doing this?_

_Because you ordered it, you jackass._

He ran crouched around the ruins of a Bravo tank on the western sidewalk of Delinian, trying to stay as far away as possible from the ruins of a Lynx opposite. The latter was freshly dead and he didn't want to be caught with his pants down if its ammo cooked off.

Sepp rounded the Oberon's metal husk, spun and pressed himself against the next building's brick surface. Then he peered around the corner into a skinny alleyway. No signs of trouble. No signs of anyone. But he heard voices, and they weren't speaking Erdsprech

Bannon followed up, sliding his back to the wall next to Sepp. They could both hear the signature _pooms_ of tank shells and streaming gunfire nearby. By Sepp's reckoning it was just around the corner to 4th and down the road.

He gestured at Bannon, then continued his running crouch past the alley and to the next corner, where Delinian Avenue met 4th Street, Bannon's footsteps close on his heels. Again Sepp leaned to and peered around the corner.

4th was similar to any other city road, as far as Sepp could tell. The structures got progressively taller and more businesslike as the road progressed. What was different now, though, was the presence of an Orange Star infantry squad's tail end scurrying up the road about twenty feet off.

Sepp pulled back, looked at Bannon, and nodded. Bannon returned the nod. Then Sepp leaned out again.

"Hey!"

The last couple members of the squad spun on their heels, weapons raised and pointing precariously at Sepp.

He jerked his head back. Didn't want to lose it 'cause of some trigger-happy grunts. Instead, he yelled, "Don't shoot, we're OSA!" He took his rifle by its stock and slowly poked it around the corner.

There were a few seconds of relative silence. The battle ahead was still ongoing, but he didn't hear anything from the squad. Not until one of 'em shouted back, "Which unit?"

"No unit!" Sepp licked his lips. "We're from Bravo Company."

Another pause, then, "Come out, weapon down. How many of you?"

"Just two," Sepp answered. Carefully he complied, keeping his rifle where it was and stepping around the corner. He sidestepped to let Bannon come out too.

Those occupied barrels were still pointed at them. Now there were three. The other members of the eight-man unit squatted behind their fellows along the sidewalk. One of the three said something to another, and the latter approached Sepp and Bannon. Weapon still up, of course.

"Names?" he asked as he drew near. He was exceptionally pale, something you didn't see in battle-hardened infantry. Sepp took a mental picture of his narrow face.

"Second Lieutenant Sepp Lee. This is Private George Bannon."

Under the rim of his helmet, the man's eyes studied them both. "Forgive me if I don't salute, Lieutenant. Chorus?"

"Stripe," Sepp responded to the challenge. After a tense moment, the weapons lowered.

Now the man did salute. "Sergeant Keen, Infantry Company A. Goddamn, sir, you're from Bravo? Thought you guys were gone."

Sepp sighed in relief. Next to him Bannon did the same. "Yup, we're Bravo. The lucky few, I guess. You run across any other survivors, Keen?"

Keen shook his head. "We haven't, sir. Didn't hear anything from command either."

Sepp swallowed. He didn't want to believe Roma and Sigfried were dead. Not yet. "Ok. Thanks for not shooting, Sergeant."

"Yessir. All due respect, sir, but we have to move. Got a job to do."

Sepp glanced at Bannon, who shrugged. "Alright. We're tagging along."

(())

From the Reynault's new, and hopefully safe, vantage point in the sky, Sami watched the final engagement of Calciki unfold.

More and more Black Hole units poured into the square and were throwing themselves at the Green Earth forces. The Black Hole troops were as disciplined as any, she noted. They circled, strafed, and zigzagged with precision, each element of their armor and infantry companies working in near-perfect tandem. As far as she could tell, about half of their armored company had joined combat. Following up were the grunts, which from this distance were just specks running to and fro.

Their organization was stunning, really. It was much easier for Sami to appreciate it from a bird's eye point of view. She reflected that Black Hole military doctrine did not separate armor and infantry companies; instead, they employed mixed units that worked in unison, each component supporting the other. When Orchid Command had labeled their infantry commander as Whiskey 8 and armor as Victor 8, about an hour of confusion followed during which Rachel and Lash had to integrate OSA terminology and organization within Black Hole's command structure. They'd managed to hammer out a workable solution, which involved considerable communications changes on Black Hole's part, but they didn't complain.

Christoph's tanks were advancing. The distinction between units was less clear but they moved with a determination that matched Black Hole's calculation. The Oberons maneuvered with little regard to the patches of concrete-ringed grass and bushes – they were little obstacles with little impact. The square might as well have been flat and featureless. Their casualties were heavy, though. The Greens were fortified, and their state of readiness was taking its toll.

Rockets, missiles, tank rounds all screamed back and forth across the square, the sounds reaching Sami's chopper and all inside. Sami felt quite powerless, though she knew there was nothing she could do.

"Colonel," the pilot said. "You want me to contact Kilo's commander?"

Sami looked at him, then back out the window. One of those Oberons down there was Christoph's. She hoped it wasn't one that was already dead.

"No. Let him command. He's got more important things on his mind."

(())

"Goddamnit, I want Delta 1 up here! We're losing units fast!"

Christoph was back in 19's hull, but only to check his terminal. Delta 1 had somehow been shoved aside and his mediums were taking the heat. Two of his ten squadrons had been annihilated. Of the rest only one, the Neotank group, remained untouched. The others had all lost at least one tank, and most two or three.

"This is Delta 1! We're moving to cover the front!"

"Do it! All other units, go go!"

With that Christoph dragged himself up again and entered the bedlam outside. As he did 19's cannon discharged, as did 17's to his right, throwing their shells across concrete and grass and taking out a Lynx a ways off. The booming guns left Christoph's ears ringing.

It was a wonder he hadn't been hit with shrapnel or a carefully aimed shot, but he didn't have much time to think about it. He was useless as a commander if he was blind, and getting in the thick of it was the only option left.

On the eastern edge of the square his Neotanks skirted around the front of Kilo's advance. The Green Earth HQ was fast approaching, it's low, wide structure and sunken design providing ledges and cover behind which both infantry and tanks could defend. The Neotanks zipped forward, their five cannons blasting in rapid succession. As they did so the closest bunker, a hastily assembled steel frame set up within a concrete stairway at the psych ward's main entrance, disappeared in fire, debris and airborne rubble.

There was a squadron of Lynx circling the northeastern edge of the square. Their turrets turned in unison, tracking the lead Neotank, and their subsequent returning salvo just as unkind. They copied the Neotanks' deadly cascade, cannons bursting with smoke and flame. The five incoming shells slammed into one of Christoph's Neotanks almost at once, each detonation greater than the last until the Neo exploded in a spectacular display of fire and brimstone.

_Fuck!_ They'd wizened up and were concentrating fire. There went his trump card.

Ahead the Green Earth battle line waited. To the left was the ward's entrance, bunker still burning. There was about a hundred yards between that position and the square's eastern edge, and the bulk of Kilo was screaming towards the bottleneck.

He ducked back, dropped to his chair. They could break the Greens' line, he knew. But there was no reason to do it in such a straightforward manner, not when their static bunker defenses were gone.

He hit a pair of radio buttons. His own squadron and Group 14, which had four intact tanks. "Listen up, new orders! We're breaking from the main body of Kilo and circling left towards the objective. Ten o'clock! Mark _now_!"

19 swerved. Christoph's terminal told him 17 and 18 were following, as well as 11, 12, 14, and 15. "Head for the ruined bunker," he instructed. Then he settled in. There was no reason to go outside right this second.

All he had to do was wait.

(())

Kilo was certainly giving the Greens hell. Sami might've been impressed if there was time to feel impressed. Which meant it was also time to move.

"The Greens are tangled up. Let's go." She pointed to the line of Orange Star armor. "Our guys have pushed them back, so forget the original drop location. Take us right to their HQ."

Without hesitation, Sami's pilot nodded. "Right. Hold on."

For the second time that day, the tempo of the Reynault's rotors picked up and its engine roared. Sami felt her center of gravity lurch. She watched the buildings disappear under the bottom edge of the cabin panes, and they began another descent. Every muscle was tense. She tried to cover every possible angle in scanning for incoming SAMs, even knowing the Reynault's defense systems would be more effective than her efforts. Instinct for self-preservation, she supposed.

They approached the white six-story structure that had been their intended drop zone, almost directly across from the ward. Then they passed over it and descended further, over scurrying squads of infantry and straggling tanks at the company's rear. They were flying low, very low, so low that there was probably five feet of clearance between the Reynault's wheels and what sparse trees there were.

The chopper streamed across the square, nose pitched down. To their right the sounds of battle were no longer remote enough to be masked by distance. Each shell, each rocket, each explosion was distinct. Unintelligible radio chatter sparked every now and then through the unused headphones. Ahead the ward was fast approaching. A hundred feet. Then fifty. Then thirty.

They passed over a series of seven tanks that had broken from Kilo's main body and were apparently attempting to circumvent the two dozen Lynx and Jackals that made up Calciki's defenders. Sami removed herself from the cabin and steadied herself in the hold, watching them roll underneath. They were close enough that she noticed one Oberon's command hatch was open…

Then the ground dropped about another ten feet past a concrete stairway. They had arrived.

The Reynault slowed, came to a hover directly over the plaza at the ward's entrance. There wasn't much to it, which was good. No place to mis-drop and break a bone._ Very good._ She faced her crew, hammered her fist on the ceiling, and waved them to the door. "Go, go, go!"

The first man slung a rope over the side, gripped it, and jumped, sliding down with ease. Then the next, and the next. Each man followed, and Zhang was second to last. Below the chopper's whipping blades the Special Forces soldiers fanned out and took up their designated positions with practiced motions.

Before Sami followed, the pilot turned in his seat and threw her a salute. "Luck, Colonel."

Sami nodded and saluted back. "Thank you, Warrant. Safe flying."

And with that, she slung her rifle and took the rope.

(())

The squad Sepp and Bannon now accompanied was edging along Hope Square's rim, the two tankers bringing up the rear.

They jogged behind the cover of a semi-trailer, its placement a godsend to Orange Star's infantry. Might've only been forty feet of protection but it was better than no protection at all. Still, though, when bullets pinged off the other side, Sepp couldn't help but flinch. He felt exposed without his Oberon. The blasts from Kilo's engagement were loud too. Sepp could feel them, they were that close.

Ahead Sergeant Keen popped his head around the semi's corner. Then he turned back to his men. "There's a depression in the square about a hundred feet thataway," he said, pointing vaguely behind Kilo's line of armor. "We're gonna take up position there and keep Kilo's rear covered." Keen glanced around the rest of his men and then waved to Sepp. "You don't have to come with us, Lieutenant, but if you don't you're on your own."

Sepp shook his head. "We'll tag along." Despite the cover it provided, the semi wouldn't stand up to heavy ordnance, and they might as well stick to a group. He clapped Bannon on the shoulder. "Right, Private?"

Bannon just nodded. "Right."

_Good_, Sepp thought. _No nerves. Or if he's got 'em they aren't showing._ "Ready when you are, Sergeant."

Keen swung back and took a last peek around the corner. Then he waved forward. "Let's go!"

What followed was a blur to Sepp. The cover of the semi was gone. He was sprinting, head low, boots pounding the asphalt underfoot. Ahead of him the rest of Keen's squad was doing the same. A jet screamed by overhead, friendly or not he didn't know. Sounded like more than one but he didn't have the time or the will to look up.

But he did glance to his right.

Kilo's tanks were jammed close to one another, the entire company caught in a fast-moving traffic jam. The space between tanks might've been large for cars – about ten feet on both sides – but that was nothing for a sixty-ton machine toting a 120 mm cannon. The tanks in the rear were generally checking their fire, but Sepp caught a glimpse of spouts of flame and smoke from the front.

Then he fixed his eyes forward again. Keen had made it to the lower area, turned around and descended the short flight of concrete stairs facing backwards, an impressive feat. "Come on!" the Sergeant yelled. Or that was what Sepp read on his lips, since he couldn't hear a damn thing. His breath was heavy in his ears. He wasn't in the same shape as the grunts but he'd be damned if he let them outrun his scrawny ass.

And then his foot hit the top stair. He fumbled, nearly lost his balance and his rifle, and negotiated the rest trying to slow his momentum. When he hit the bottom he staggered, caught himself with his rifle's stock, and wheezed.

"Good job, Lieutenant."

Sepp looked up to find Bannon smirking. He looked winded too, but he apparently found it more amusing to see his superior choke.

"Thanks, Private." Sepp took the chance to straighten up – but not too high. He took deep gulps of air.

It was just a little decorative area a few feet below ground level, and about twenty feet across. A couple benches sat between the four-step stairways on all sides. Keen's infantrymen were taking up their positions, weapons up and ready on the southwestern, southern, and eastern sides.

Sepp looked around and found Keen, who was checking on each man.

"So you're the guys who watch the armor's back, huh Sergeant?"

"Yessir, that's our job."

Sepp bobbed his head, and gave the squad members another once-over. Then he almost smiled. Might've actually done it if he'd forgotten their circumstances.

"Thank you."

(())

They were in.

The front door had been locked, but locked doors never stopped Special Forces. It would take a lot more to stop Special Forces.

In about three seconds, Sami had examined the lobby's every detail. Very sparse. White walls, gray armchairs, some potted plants, and a couple end tables flanked the carpeted center, which sported a design of two twisted snakes around a rod. There were exactly three paintings, all of similarly green landscapes. The reception desk directly opposite the entrance was empty, of course. To the desk's left and right, two corridors spanned away behind corners. Sami knew those corridors went about ten feet before meeting doors.

All in three seconds.

For the first time in a long time, Sami was in her element.

The booming outside disappeared, the cries of men dying and machines of war exploding receded. The world now consisted of the psychiatric ward, Sami's squad, and Sami's enemies. She threw a noiseless gesture. Five fingers, pointing left, then five pointing right.

Her soldiers complied, forming perfect lines that snaked down either side of the lobby, Sami second from the front in one and Zhang in the other. The first man of each group turned down the corridors at precisely the same time. Then the all-clear came from both.

Sami nodded to Bishop. He was the lead of the other fireteam, a decorated officer and stern commander. Sami had known him for about two days, but that Special Forces connection was there. He nodded back.

She directed her five men down the right hall, and Bishop went down the left.

Sami's men filed down, heading for the heavy metal door, the soldier in back – Ishiot – maintaining his aim to cover the squad's rear. They all squeezed themselves flat against the wall to avoid drawing line of sight through the door's narrow window. The first man of the squad, Hutchins, slipped ahead and glanced through. Then he signaled clear, grabbed the door handle and pulled it open under the cover of his fellows' rifles.

Again they advanced. Ishiot guided the door shut noiselessly behind him. Hutchins led, one boot in front of the other, soles sinking into the carpeted floor without a sound, everything above his waist – most importantly his rifle – perfectly steady. As Hutchins approached the next corner, Sami tightened her grip on her rifle, lined up the iron sights. She was not only the commander of the mission but also as crucial a rifleman as any of them. Hutchins' life and task depended on her aim, and her spirit.

Hutchins crouched low and did a sharp ninety-degree turn to look down the length of the next hallway. Then another subtle gesture came from his hand still gripping the rifle's hold. All-clear, yet again.

The squad followed.

This hall had more doors. Some were open. Most weren't. Those that were revealed abandoned white beds and simple living facilities. One or two hosted bookshelves. The important feature, though, was that none of the doors were metal. Their… _intel_ said that Max was being held in a room with a steel door.

A couple more corridors branched off here and there, as well as two elevators. Sami poked her barrel around the first corridor while Hutchins and the rest of the squad kept an eye forward. Nothing. They continued to the second and did the same.

Then it struck her that, for the Green Earth headquarters, it wasn't quite buzzing with activity.

"Shit," she mouthed.

She tapped Hutchins on the shoulder, then held up her hand. The men halted. She signaled to Ishiot, who shuffled over.

"Check the elevator. See what floor we're on."

There was no nod, no acknowledgement of her orders. With Special Forces, it was just assumed _you did as you were fucking told_. Ishiot shuffled back, past the fireteam, and glanced at the elevator's steel frame. Then he returned.

"Says 'G', ma'am."

Sami's breath quickened. Was it possible…?

"Fuck." Now the curse was more audible. "We're on the wrong floor. We need to be up one."

Why had it slipped by her? By all of them? Max was being held on the first floor. But because of the ward's sunken design, the floor at entrance level was called the _ground_ floor. Above at city level, above where Sami and her men were, was floor one. It was a stupid, idiotic oversight that had fallen through the cracks in the haste to assemble a coherent mission, probably because the floor plans of the two levels were identical.

But now was no time to beat herself up over it. She scanned their hallway. Then she grabbed her radio and squeezed the button. "Fireteam Two, halt. I repeat, halt. Move to the nearest staircase. We need to ascend one floor. Do not enter the stairwell until my mark."

Bishop responded, "Roger lead." A short pause filtered through her radio's light static, and then, "We're set."

Sami waved her men on. There was no panic as a result of their error. Everything continued like it'd been their intention from the beginning. As Hutchins arrived at the stairwell door, Sami clicked the radio button again. "Mark."

Hutchins kicked the door open. There was little time for stealth or secrecy now. It was a sort of unspoken, untrained, uncanny ability that Special Forces soldiers could individually evaluate a given event in an ongoing situation and come to nearly identical conclusions. And right now that conclusion was their mistake had cost precious time. Plus, anyone on the first floor wouldn't notice the intrusion over the rather pressing battle outside. The stairwell was definitely on the ward's outer edge, for within its confines the rumbles and sounds of war were more audible.

Hutchins entered. Sami signaled to the three soldiers behind her – Worth, Gidh, and Ishiot – to hold. She went ahead with Hutchins and clicked her rifle to semi-auto. Carefully, they ascended the first flight, rifles nearly vertical, pointing straight up at the landing above. Sami pivoted 180 degrees in place, taking backwards steps, keeping the barrel cemented at the landing. As she and Hutchins crept up, two green helmets came into view. Then their owners.

It was an extreme angle so when Sami squeezed her trigger, the single round drilled through the bottom of the guard's chin. Not a moment later Hutchins' target received the same fate. They both collapsed, dead before they hit the floor.

Sami jerked her hand at the rest of the squad and ordered hoarsely, "Go, go, go!" Stealth was certainly out the window, and she and Hutchins bounded up the first flight, turned and took the second flight with ease, Worth, Gidh, and Ishiot following. Sami stepped over one body and shoved the other away with her boot so she could get at the door. Her fingers reset her weapon to automatic burst. Then she took point, and as Hutchins hauled the stairway door open, she stepped through, crouched, rifle covering the left corridor.

The first thing she noticed was that the layout _was_ identical. Looked in every way the same as the floor below. With the exception of actually being populated.

A Green Earth soldier had apparently been patrolling the hall. Now he stopped and half-turned to see what all the commotion was. Again Sami's finger curled. The rifle spat, and the Green received the poor end of three bullets. Behind her another rifle cracked loud in the confined space. Without looking she knew it was friendly; she had the acoustics of nearly every Orange Star infantry weapon etched into her mind.

Somewhere else in the building there was additional gunfire. More than just a couple simple bursts, too.

She handled her radio. "Fireteam Two, this is lead, status?"

That same gunfire now came through loud and clear over the speaker. "Lead, Fireteam Two. Engaged with three or four Green Earth soldiers, they're holed up in a pharmacy. We just exited the stairwell."

"Roger, Two. On our way."

Sami tapped her helmet, held up three, then four fingers, and directed her squad's avenue of attack.

They moved, the sounds of spitting rifles ringing through the halls.

Sami resumed her point position as they started along the building's width. The walls were so featureless and white that if it wasn't the hours of preparation she might've been lost. They passed an open room, some sort of lounge for the ward's residents, but now no one occupied it. She briefly scanned it before continuing. Next was a lab of some sort, its space small and shelves holding pill bottles and syringes. Also empty.

There was shouting downway. In Common, but Erdsprech too. A couple short bursts of automatic fire barked. Then more shouting, from the next door on the left.

Sami signaled warning. She crouched low, weapon's butt pressing into her shoulder, and rounded the doorframe.

A pharmacy, no doubt. More bins and cabinets, though sparsely populated with medications. Probably removed. Diagonally across the room there was another doorway flanked by counters, and a metal cabinet had been shoved over across the entrance, door hanging open and files spilling across the floor. Behind this makeshift cover, four Green Earth soldiers crouched.

The one closest to Sami's position was just ducking back behind the counter. He let slide an empty cartridge from his gun. Before he could slam in a fresh magazine, though, his eyes met Sami's and went wide.

Perfect.

She squeezed off two bursts. The Green's whole body jerked, his weapon clattered to the floor. Quickly Sami shuffled to the other side of the doorframe and loosed another pair of three-round cycles at the soldier lying prone behind the overturned cabinet, who was only now looking to see who had snuck up on them. Sami's shots caught him in the face, and the back of his neck exploded red and pink across the white tiled floor. The other rounds went two inches wide and pinged through the thin cabinet door, launching bits of paper into the air.

Hutchins had already taken up Sami's former position, Gidh above him. Their rifles cracked and found marks in the final two Greens.

The gunfire stopped.

Bishop's voice echoed through the room, from the hallway beyond the Greens' location. "Colonel?"

"That's me, Bishop," Sami called back.

"Okay." No thanks. No need. There was every chance that Bishop's fireteam would be aiding Sami's at some point. That would demonstrate their gratitude.

(())

From his new position in 19's hatch, Christoph could see everything. There were no uncertainties. Every ally was clear, and the enemies clearer. He freely directed his tank's delivery of death.

A Lynx about fifty meters off was turning away, maybe trying for a better position. That was his loss. Christoph retreated into 19. "Gunner, flank shot, one o'clock, eighty meters!"

"Got it!"

"Fire!"

19's gun bellowed destruction. Christoph clambered back up the hatch to ensure the target's demise, his body thrown about as 19 treaded on. He came up as the smoke cleared.

The Lynx was not dead, and now its turret was rotating towards Christoph's tank.

He dived down, slammed his helmet with his hand. "Incoming!"

19 jarred violently, Christoph's every sense was pummeled with the roar of a tank round's end. Heat washed through the hull, and his breath was sucked away. When he tried to inhale it scalded his lungs.

He opened his eyes, blinked away welling tears. There was smoke. But through the ringing in his ears he heard the turbine still running. No warning lights flashed, no Halon gas leaked, and his terminal shone dimly through the gloom. They'd survived, it seemed. Something, though, wasn't right.

"Nybo?" he asked.

"Here, sir." Sounded for all the world like nothing had happened.

In front of him he heard coughing. "Rest of my crew still alive?" he said, almost jokingly. It felt very out of place, but the words just kind of came.

Two _yessirs_ came back. _Still alive._ Then what was it…?

19 wasn't moving.

A bell went off in Christoph's head. "Driver, get us rolling again!"

For a moment the engine roared, and 19 jerked. The driver tried again, adding more juice, but to no avail. The Oberon was apparently stuck fast.

"No dice, sir."

Christoph quickly went through a mental checklist. "Gunner, what about that Lynx? I want it dead if it isn't."

"I think it is, sir. Someone else must've taken it out."

A reprieve, then. He grabbed a rung. "I'm checking the damage. Stay put, and keep an eye out." With that, Christoph once again ascended to the outside world.

The smoke was starting to clear. He hauled himself into the light and more, far enough that his torso was sticking out of the turret. He leaned over the side. Damn dangerous but he had to see what was impeding 19's path.

He discovered that it wasn't really a _thing_ blocking their way. It was a _lack _of something. 19's right tread had been ripped off, bits and pieces scattered as far as he could tell, out to twenty or thirty feet away. Some of the treadcaps had been blown too, and the front right corner of the tank was charred. But most of the damage had been dealt to 19's tread, and not its contents

Lucky that his crew had lived. Unlucky that 19 was a sitting duck.

But the rest of his seven-man improvised squadron rolled past, circling around 19. Over the sounds of conflict he heard his earphones crackle. "Captain, we saw the hit. What's your damage?" 18's commander, he was pretty sure.

Christoph drew a deep breath. His tank was useless now, a static defense piece that would be easy pickings for anyone with a sharp eye. _Fuck. _He screwed his eyes shut and tapped his mic. "We're immobile. Still have power but we can't budge."

"Ok, sir. We'll sit tight and give you cover."

"No!" Christoph's eyes popped open. He couldn't let them do that. The Greens had to be defeated. Destroyed. He wouldn't let them get away just because they'd managed a fluke shot. "No, press the attack! We need to drive the Greens out!"

He scanned the battlefield. Kilo's elements were shuffling, strafing, pounding the Green Earth forces with everything they had. He spotted a couple Green positions between the general milling and saw burning machines and dead troops. Way to the east on the square's perimeter the infantry were advancing slowly but surely. Eventually they'd find a way to outflank the enemy, it was almost sure.

He looked over his shoulder to the south. He couldn't see the groundhogs, but the fact that Green Earth tanks weren't spilling around the psych ward told him they were at least doing their job.

And then he looked at the ward itself, the Green Earth headquarters. 19 sat not twenty feet from the short set of stairs that led to the ward's plaza.

Victory was within their grasp.

Christoph summoned Kilo's command structure from memory. 18's senior officer was a First Lieutenant. His name… Sung, that was it.

"18, come in. Sung, right?"

"Ah, yes sir."

"I'm giving you command. My tank is immobile, I have poor line of sight and I'm in no position to issue orders to Kilo. Do you understand?"

Christoph waited for a response. Just static. _Goddamn it, this isn't a request. Take this last order before I give it to someone else._

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Delta 8 out."

Christoph dropped through the hatch, back into his seat. The smoke was clearing. He rolled left, set his boots on the cabin floor, and poked his head behind the chairs.

"Nybo," he said while rummaging around, "I've handed command of Kilo over to Lieutenant Sung." He fumbled, trying to find the equipment stash's handle. "You all are to stay put. It's safer here than out there."

"Captain?"

Christoph found what he was looking for. He grabbed the locker's latch and hauled it open. Inside were four standard-issue army pistols and eight magazines. He snatched a gun, then two cartridges, sliding one into the pistol's grip chamber. Then he slipped the weapon and spare ammo into his body armor.

"Captain, what are you doing?"

Christoph didn't answer. He clambered back, set his feet on his seat, grabbed the rungs in the hatch shaft and disappeared into the daylight.

(())

There wasn't much going on with the rear guard. In a relative sense, of course. The Battle of Calciki was raging not a hundred yards to the squad's back, but right now it didn't concern them. They were busy watching nothing.

And Sepp was happy for it. If these were the boys that watched the armor's ass, kept 'em alert to unseen dangers, then they could lounge around and smoke for all he cared.

Speaking of which…

Sepp patted his pocket. Empty. Then another. He stuck his hand in and it came back out with a lighter. No cigarettes, though. He looked around, got up and scrambled over to Keen's position, sliding up with his back against the concrete. Keen, rifle propped up on the ledge, glanced at Sepp.

"Sorry Sergeant, might be a bad time, but you got any cigs? I have a light."

Keen shook his head. "Gaberson might." He jerked his thumb left. "Over there."

Sepp's eyes followed the digit, and he nodded his tanks. "Much obliged." Then he scurried to Gaberson. He felt like a mouse watching for cat, but taking precautions was better than taking shrapnel to the face.

He reached Gaberson and tapped him on the shoulder. Without taking his eyes off his sights, the infantryman dug into one of his pockets and came back with a smokestick.

Sepp plucked it from his fingers. "Thanks, private. Appreciated."

"No prob."

With that, Sepp crossed their little zone and returned to his original position, on a bench next to Bannon, facing the ward. As he sat down he stuck the cigarette between his lips, flicked the lighter, set the flame, and puffed.

"Damn." Felt good. It'd been something like twenty hours since his last fix. "Damn," he repeated. He closed his eyes, sucked again, plucked the cig and blew smoke. It was a Godsend, really.

When he opened his eyes he set to examining the Green Earth HQ. There wasn't much to it. Really an underwhelming location for headquarters. A ridiculous part of him had been expecting some kind of medieval castle, given what knew about the Greens' culture. Seemed silly, now that he thought about it.

He took another puff of his cigarette and offered it to Bannon, who shook his head. "Don't smoke, sir."

Sepp shrugged. As he returned the piece to his lips, his eyes settled on nothing in particular.

Then he noticed a figure sprinting in the direction of the ward. He blinked. _Strange_. He half-stood, trying to get a better view.

The figure bounded over a bush, flung his helmet off and started falling from view, probably going down some stairs. Before he was gone completely, though, Sepp caught a tuft of brown hair.

_What the…?_

He shook his head. Three quarters of the population had brown or black hair. It could've been anyone.

When Sepp looked again he tried to trace where the running figure had come from. His line of sight found an idle tank, the commander's hatch open, the right tread torn and limp. The tank also had the slightly longer antenna that marked it as a command vehicle.

He bit his lip, shook his head again. It was probably just his imagination getting to him, but he had to be sure. So he got up again, smokestick still burning, and wandered back over to Keen.

"Sergeant, let me use your radio."

Keen gave him a look, but pulled his device from his belt and handed it to Sepp. No reason to argue with a superior officer. "It's set to Delta 8's channel. Kilo command."

"Right." Sepp plugged one ear, held the radio to the other and clicked it. "Delta 8, Delta 8, this is, ah, rear guard. Come in."

A voice that Sepp didn't recognize answered. "This is Delta 8. We, um… we're no longer the commanding unit. That responsibility has been transferred to 18."

_18? What in the devil?_ "Ah, ok, Delta. Rear guard out." He cut the connection and strained his neck to look over the ledge at Kilo. Most of the company's tanks were crawling away, but several sat burning in the middle of the square. He turned to Keen. "What's 18's channel?"

Keen looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he reached over and keyed the radio for Sepp. "There."

Again Sepp stopped an ear and clicked the button. "Kilo commander, Kilo commander, this is rear guard, come in, over. What's your status?"

Static answered. Sepp frowned, waiting. When ten seconds had passed, he tried again. "Kilo commander, this is rear guard. Respond, please."

Again, nothing.

He looked up at Keen. "You sure that's 18's channel?" he asked.

Keen yoinked the radio from Sepp's hands and peered at it. "Yep. Definitely."

_Shit._ "Then they're gone too," he muttered. Gone. Kilo's captain gone, and Kilo's secondary commander gone. The company was without a leader. _Shit._ It was one of the worst possible situations a military unit could be in. Didn't matter if they were winning anyway, didn't matter how many casualties they'd inflicted or received. No commander meant no way to coordinate a response to enemy actions. Which meant dead men, men that didn't have to die.

Sepp squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, "Fuck me."

"Wazzat, Lieutenant?"

Sepp stood. He took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked the piece away. Then he unslung his rifle to set it against Keen's bench. Finally, he adjusted his tanker's helmet. "I have to thank you for your help, Sergeant. Bannon!"

The private looked up.

"Stay with Keen. That's an order."

And with that, Sepp scrambled up the stairs from the squad's position and broke into a sprint. Arms pumping and legs driving, he hurdled over a pile of rubble, banked around a tree and ran. The motionless Oberon was a ways off but it drew nearer. That's how it seemed to Sepp. He was running without thought, without processing the pain in his muscles. He hadn't even let himself have time to really consider what he was doing, other than come to the conclusion that it had to be done. His boot caught a chunk of concrete and went flying. There was a smell of fire and devastation in the air that he inhaled with each breath-

Then his palms found the rear section of 19's hull and he hoisted himself up, scaled the turret, crawled to the open hatch and dropped in with one smooth motion.

It was darker inside than he'd expected. Someone started. "The _fuck?"_

Sepp squinted, trying to let his eyes adjust. He held up his hands, for what it was worth. "It's cool, I'm Orange Star!" Sounded stupid but what else was he gonna say?

"Captain?" The voice sounded hopeful.

"No, not Captain. Lieutenant." The guy in the loader's seat was big, from what he could tell. "Your commander's gone?"

The big man hesitated. "Yea. Who the hell are you? From Kilo?"

"No, Bravo." Sepp glanced at the terminal, poked it a couple times. Wasn't any different than his, of course, but it still wasn't _his._ It'd have to make do, though. "Who's the Captain? And your name and rank."

"It was Captain Christoph Jorn, sir. He just up an' left for God knows what reason." A pause, then, "I'm Private Nybo. Er, this is unorthodox, ah, sir. Are you here to…?"

"Yes. I'm taking command." It went against Sepp's every grain, to be breaking protocol as heavily as he was now. But his suspicions were confirmed. That'd been Christoph running from 19. Not a fucking clue why, but that's how it was.

Besides, he knew Christoph, and he could command like him, if not quite as well. Kilo would just have to get used to his style. He tapped his terminal, found the wireless signal of his helmet and hooked it into the Oberon's network. Then he pressed the company button.

"Kilo Company, listen up…"

(())

Sami's rifle buried its rounds in the plaster ahead of the Green Earth soldier bolting down the hallway. Miss. The next shot though – a single round – struck him in the back. He pitched forward, slamming into the ground limply while his weapon spiraled across the tiled floor. He twitched for a moment, then lay still.

Sami's fireteam was traveling down another hall, having separated from Bishop's again. This one was a bit wider, the plaster walls framed with wood, and there were windows on the right side, shades drawn. If she'd dared to look she would've seen firsthand the damage being done to the city by Orange Star and Green Earth forces. But now wasn't the time.

As she passed the soldier's body, she pulled her pistol, aimed, and fired a round into the base of his skull. A small part of her heart twanged at having to do so, but there was no quarter to be given, and none to be asked. Nothing could jeopardize her mission. Max's life was more important than an enemy grunt's right now.

Sami stepped aside, against the wall, and waved her squad forward. She reholstered her pistol, disengaged and dropped her empty rifle cartridge, and slammed a new one in. Then, just as Ishiot passed, she resumed step at the squad's rear.

Ahead Hutchins kicked through another door. The sounds of battle suddenly flowed through Sami's ears. This would be the exterior compound, she knew, a grassy walled area for the enjoyment of the ward's patients. They passed through the door and on to its counterpart directly opposite. When they had traversed them both the noise once again became muted, and it was Sami's turn to let the door slide closed behind. It shut abruptly, cutting off the majority of the din. But not all of it.

She followed, keeping an eye over Worth's shoulder while examining their new hall. The first room on the left was open. Hutchins swept it with his rifle but apparently found nothing. Still, when the rest of the squad had filed on and Sami got chance, she glanced in.

Desk. Chair. Documents. Cabinets. All white, all plastic. A small transparent container on the desk's surface. A pair of syringes.

Nothing to see. She continued. The next door passed by, and Hutchins repeated his sweep. Sami did the same. A long conference room. Undistinguished, only holding a meeting table, a desk, and a blocky satellite phone.

Her mental map told her they were drawing near.

(())

Max paced back and forth in his cell, one fist bunched up inside the other. He squeezed his fingers, cracked his knuckles. The anarchy outside was clear through the concrete walls, and he was listening to it. Listening to that familiar language. The booming of tank shells, of shattered machines, of rumbling diesel and turbine engines. He knew it all. It meant a lot more than what people gave it credit for. It translated as power, chaos, and clashing ideologies.

It also meant death.

There was small arms fire too, but it wasn't from the battle outside. Definitely within the building. He could tell when and where conflict was at most times, and now, even as a prisoner of war, was no exception.

He heard boots slamming down the hall again. Then another burst of gunfire, much closer than before. If there was a bet on who the belligerents were, Max would've put money on Orange Star. After all, there were no other parties interested enough in Calciki to assault the city.

Still, he could feel his heart pumping. As much as he wanted to get out of his tiny cell, if those were Orange Star troops then they had a mission to do, and he wasn't one to pull friendly soldiers from their tasks.

Max halted, cocked his head, trying to hear anything out of the ordinary. _More_ out of the ordinary, really. Just more bootsteps, though. Then he stepped to the sink. He turned the valve for cold water, running his hands under the stream and splashing a handful onto his face. He wiped his forearm across his eyes, grabbed the end of his shirt and padded his forehead.

To his right, the metal door latch clicked.

Max jerked his head.

There was some commotion outside. Voices, but not sentences. Short, simple orders.

Speaking Common.

The door swung open. Max took a step back, but there was no need. On the other side was not a Green Earth soldier. Nor was it Eagle.

Max felt his mouth fall open. "Sami?"

Sure enough, those green eyes were sharp under the rim of a gray helmet. There was no mistaking her fierce look. Otherwise, everything about Sami was gray. She was suited head-to-toe in urban combat gear, packs, rifle, grenades and all. Behind her there were two more identically dressed Orange Star soldiers, each keeping a steady gaze down either end of the corridor.

For a second he just stared. Then he grinned. "Holy shit, it is you! Here to bust me out?"

Sami, however, hardly reacted. There might've been a smirk for just a second, but it quickly disappeared. Her eyes were still sharp. Max had known her long enough to know that meant she wasn't about to stop for anything. She never did. "No time. Let's go, Max." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hall.

As he passed underneath the doorframe, some part of Max's brain found time to consider how silly he must've looked. Here he was, directed at the arm by a girl a full head shorter than he, his face wet and sporting a big grin. He was vaguely aware that there were four, not two, Orange Star soldiers accompanying Sami. They started down the left hall.

Then, finally, Max's thoughts synced with the turmoil.

_Free._

(())

Sami was happy to see Max alive and unharmed. She wanted to tell him that, to throw him a hug and pat him on the back. It was exceptionally hard to keep her grin from expanding, but she had to stay focused. They weren't done yet. They still had to get out, have Max extracted via helicopter. Then Orange Star had to actually _win._ She really wasn't sure about the situation outside, but that wasn't her problem. It was Christoph's. The best she could do was complete her mission.

The fireteam retraced its steps. Sami let go of Max's wrist and pushed his considerable bulk ahead of her. He looked a little dazed but was otherwise coherent and very much alive. Then she took up the rear again, glanced over her shoulder, and grabbed her radio. "Fireteam Two, this is Lead. We have the Colonel. Repeat, we have Colonel Max, he's safe. Meet in the lobby, we'll have him flown out from the plaza."

"Lead, this is Bishop. Good to hear, ma'am. We were converging from the other side but spotted a ranking Green Earth officer. Would you like us to pursue?"

She frowned. A strange question. "Unless it's someone of strategic importance, don't bother. We've got more pressing things at the moment."

"Well, ma'am, the flight's description matches General Eagle's. That important enough for you?"

Sami's mouth stopped halfway into her response. For a moment she couldn't really say anything as she processed the information. _Eagle? Here? Now?_ There was no way. As the commander of Green Earth's Omega Land forces, he would've gotten out, escaped. Sami knew Eagle, and running might've been far from his mind, but falling into enemy hands was even farther. Yes, they had known this building was his base of operations, but Sami figured he would have left before Orange Star got anywhere close to Green Earth's HQ.

It was impossible, improbable, and, most importantly, unthinkable that he would have remained behind.

_Right?_

They were passing through the doors that connected the outdoor compound. Outside, then in. Again Sami glanced over her shoulder. Wasn't really sure why.

"Ma'am?" the radio chattered in her hand.

Sami swallowed. She drew a breath. "Where did you see him?"

"He went down a stairway to the ground floor, ma'am."

"Was anyone accompanying him?"

"Not that we saw."

She blinked. Her legs moved automatically, trailing Max's broad shoulders and the rest of her men. For a moment her mind and body were disengaged.

Then, she pressed the output button. "Bishop," she said, "your orders stand. When you meet up with my fireteam, you're in charge."

Sami turned off her radio.

"Hutchins," she called. Ahead, Hutchins stopped, head swiveling to his commander. So did the rest of the squad members'. Sami passed them and jogged up to the leading man.

"Hutchins, you're Fireteam One's lead now. Got it?"

In his eyes Sami saw only a fraction of a second of confusion. Of hesitation. Her orders didn't quite make sense. _They don't have to make sense. Not to him._

"Yes, ma'am."

"Otherwise, our mission remains unchanged. Rendezvous with Fireteam Two and get the Colonel outta here."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She stared at him. Hard. Hard enough so he understood not to question what she was doing. "Get going." Then she looked at Max. And grinned. "By the way, Max, it's good to have you back."

Max's mouth opened, but she didn't leave him time to say anything. She turned and made for the nearest stairwell. Behind her she heard Hutchins say, "Let's move!" and then the tramping of feet.

The stairwell door gave way to her boot. She slipped past, letting it shut behind her as she angled her rifle down the steps. It wasn't silent, not really, but it sure felt that way. The first flight ended, and her barrel swung down the second. Again she descended. When she reached the bottom she yanked open the next door and swept her rifle about.

Immediately she knew she wasn't as familiar with this area. The floor plans were ingrained in her head, yes, but her mental preparation hadn't factored where she was now. The primary mission plan hadn't anticipated it either. It was a larger tiled room, two handicap-accessible elevators spaced evenly on the far side, a few rolling stretchers and wheelchairs set neatly against the walls. There were several branching corridors, and to be honest Sami had no idea which one to take.

So she stood, muscles tense, willing away all distractions so she could hear… something. Anything.

As if answering her prayers, the echoes of faint footsteps reached her ears.

She went straight.

Down here the halls were even sparser, if it was possible. The closeness of the ward was unsettling, too. She didn't want to admit that it was getting to her, though. And now, alone, she was a bit more guarded. Careful. Not on edge, but… vigilant. That was the word.

She continued.

Her mouth was open, breath coming quick. It was easier to control it that way than breathing through her nose, and less noisy than deep breaths in and out. A bead of sweat trickled down her back under her combat suit. Her chin strap itched. She popped around another corner, rifle scanning.

No one.

She stopped again.

The footsteps sounded. _Could be anyone. Be on your guard,_ she reminded herself.

She turned left and passed through a conference room. Only one set of the overhead lights was on, the brown oaken table gleaming in the dark as if just polished, its empty chairs perfectly arranged. A gray computer screen was at one end, its monitor black and dead. There was a blank whiteboard too.

As she passed from the room and on to the next hall, it became clear that this was not a patients' zone. It was a meeting area for whatever doctors worked here in the past, and for the storage of information. There would be computer servers down here, as well as filing cabinets and enough room for a few dozen people. A perfect arrangement for Green Earth's Omega Land command, really.

Another right. Another hall.

This one had only a single doorway branching off before the far intersection, which wasn't strange by itself. What caught her eye was the fact that it was brightly lit, compared to previous rooms. Sami swallowed, readjusted her grip on her weapon, and stepped down the hallway. Carefully, very carefully, she touched her boots to the tiled floor, one after the other, letting the soles settle smoothly and without noise. She couldn't really tell if they were making noise, though, because her heart was thumping through her ears.

A few more feet. She was nearly tiptoeing now. Being gentle with the floor. Couldn't afford to make mistakes, not while alone. She only had herself to count on. It was a familiar feeling. Like an old friend come home, an old friend named solitude. In many ways, Sami worked best alone.

She reached the doorframe, and for a moment she abandoned stealth, spun on the balls of her feet, rifle swerving around-

And stopped.

"Hello, Sami," Eagle said.

(())

Sepp was finding it hard as hell to guide an armored company via terminal.

The commander's screen was small. Bright, but small. It also didn't help that the extension was shot to hell, and that 19 – which was apparently the tank's number – was immobile.

So Sepp had to rely on proxies. Eyes in the field, so to speak.

"Dagger One." The words felt strange in his mouth. He was really only used to leading armor. "What's it look like over there? C'mon, you're my eyes, bud."

"The Greens' line is staggered, sir! Not broken, but staggered-" Dagger was cut off by heavy automatic fire, the kind you heard from a .50 caliber machine gun. But, to Sepp's relief, he came back. "They've taken heavy losses."

Sepp's brow furrowed. "How _many_ losses, Dagger?"

"Can't really say, sir."

"Take a guess!"

"Ah," the static surged, but it almost sounded like the radioman sighed. "Maybe fifty percent? That's a conservative estimate."

_Fifty percent. And they're still fighting? Routs historically happened at forty or so._ "Ok, good work. I want you to keep your asses covered, you hear me? You're my eyes, Dagger. My eyes and ears."

Fifty percent. He glanced over his terminal. The shifting numbers told him what he needed to know. Orange Star forces had suffered forty percent casualties themselves. Considering they outnumbered the Greens, it was good to see. But still sickeningly high. And he had no clue as to how many of the infantry were incapacitated.

And then there were the groundhogs. It'd taken a precious minute of explaining on Nybo's part for Sepp to understand that they were, well, on Orange Star's side. Eventually he'd given in, but not without some grumbling. Seemed wrong. Not just politically wrong, but _naturally_ wrong. Only a month past Sepp's job had been to hunt down those Black Hole units that hadn't surrendered, and now they had to work_ together_.

But in case he had to communicate with 'em, so Sepp had linked incoming transmissions to Nybo's headset so he could "translate."

He waved at the loader. "What's the Neotanks' callsign again?"

Nybo was fixed to his viewer, apparently trying to see what he could. But the action had moved on, and 19 wasn't in a good position to get direct visuals. "Delta 1, sir."

Sepp punched the corresponding button. "Delta 1, this is Delta 8. Respond."

"Delta 1, sir."

"New orders. Sounds like the enemy is weakening. See if you can punch through and circle around their rear. Might scare 'em if they've got four Neos runnin' loose behind their lines."

"Yessir, understood. Delta 1 out."

That was it, then. It was all Sepp could do; issue orders and hope for the best. He wondered briefly if he'd be reprimanded for seizing command, or honored for it. Honestly could go either way, depending on how bureaucratic the army bureaucracy felt when it was all over…

_Horseshit._ It didn't matter, did it? He was doing his damndest, trying to save lives when all it took was a man in a seat yelling at people. And if no one else was available to fill those shoes, then he would.

His headset radio whined. Then crackled. Then a weird-as-hell screech came through, mixed with the usual background noise. "Delta 8, contact."

Sepp licked his lips. That was the Black Hole fellas. "Er, this's Delta. What's, er, up?"

"Enemy forces broken. Armored resistance nonexistent, ground troops fleeing. Approximately one half has yielded. Indicate termination requirement."

Sepp swallowed and looked at Nybo.

"He wants to know if you want them killed."

Sepp's eyes went wide. "Who?"

"The surrendering troops."

"What? No!" He looked at his console again. "Victor 8, do not terminate! Repeat, do not kill the white flaggers! Disarm only, take them as POWs!"

"Understood. Victor out."

Sepp swallowed again. Then he exhaled. Surrender. The enemy surrendered over there, on the other side of the ward. With any luck, that notion would make its way over here.

With any luck, the battle would end without a single casualty more.

(())

Sami's mouth was dry. Like sandpaper. It only got worse with each breath. With each inhalation. She stepped into the room.

Eagle was sitting quite calmly in the room's center, occupying a simple folding chair. To his right was a desk, and on its surface a laptop. A closed door was in the wall behind him. Nothing more, nothing fancy. Eagle was exactly as Sami remembered him. Blue aviator's jacket, goggles around his neck, prematurely gray hair. One black boot was resting on his other knee, legs crossed, gloveless hands clasped in his lap.

His, eyes, though – Sami looked at his eyes. Stared. There were lines around them that weren't there a few months ago. He looked like he'd aged years in only weeks. Those eyes were tired.

But they weren't cold.

She tried to summon words, but couldn't. She tried to clear her throat, but couldn't.

She tried to lower her rifle, still pointing at Eagle, but couldn't.

He smiled softly. "How have you been, Sami?"

What a question to ask. _How have I been?_ "Fine." Her voice sounded distant, even to herself.

For a while they just stared at one another. It was odd. Sami was sweating in her gear, she felt the beads of moisture on her arms, back, and neck.

Then, finally, she let the rifle drop.

Eagle's smile became more of a grin. "I appreciate that. No one likes a gun pointing at their chest."

Sami said nothing.

Eagle sniffed and ran a hand through his hair. He set his crossed foot on the floor, leaned back and folded his arms. "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

"Yes."

"And why I let you track me here."

"You _let_ me?" she asked, letting a tinge of annoyance cross her face.

Eagle let out a breath. "Not exactly. I figured you would try to find me. I only stayed put." That smile again. "You're more than capable of tracking someone, Sami. You're the best there is."

Sami's rifle felt heavy in her hands, but she cradled it anyway. _Take no chances._ "I won't argue it."

"You found Max?"

She nodded. "Yes. He looked like he was in good shape. Thanks."

"For what? We captured him."

"For keeping him safe. These are crazy times. I knew Green Earth wouldn't harm their prisoners, especially not Max. But it doesn't mean I wasn't worried. Thanks, for what it's worth."

"Well," he said, nodding, "you're welcome. For what it's worth."

Sami shifted her weight. "Before you explain… whatever it is you're going to explain, I have a question, Eagle." She narrowed her eyes. "Why were you so willing to aid Orange Star against your own country?"

Whatever lightness was in Eagle's face fell away. His eyes weren't hard, not yet. But he took on a stern expression. "It has to do with this," he said, holding one palm out. "It has to do with why I'm here."

"Then tell me."

Eagle sighed. He leaned forward and turned to the desk, reaching out – slowly – and opening one of its drawers. Then his hand disappeared inside, and came back out with two objects, which he set on the desk's surface.

Sami glanced at them. Then at Eagle. Then back at the objects. She took a tentative step forward and leaned over.

The first was a heavy-duty hard drive; the kind only military hands could get a hold of. About the size and shape of a small textbook, completely black, the frame as sturdy-looking as anything. The second item was a black USB memory stick. Not necessarily of military manufacture. Just looked like an ordinary memory stick.

Eagle gestured to the two pieces. "Do you know what these are?"

Sami could wager a guess. "One of them contains the killsat software."

"And the other?"

"The codes to use it." She looked up at Eagle. "Where did you find them? The codes, I mean."

He folded his arms again. "A Black Hole research facility we captured near the end of the Von Bolt war."

Sami stared at him. Then at the two items. "This is the reason, isn't it?"

"For this war?" Eagle nodded. "Yes."

Sami brought up a hand and rubbed her eyes. It made sense. It made brutal, honest sense. That'd been Rachel's suspicion after her talk with Lash. That Green Earth had found the codes and needed the software. She let her hand drop. "You found a whole project file on the killsats too, didn't you? How to use them, all the math involved, all the programming. Everything but the software itself. Which was in Calciki."

Again, Eagle nodded. "Yes," he said. Then he waved vaguely at the ceiling. "And when we did, my higher-ups decided that we _had_ to control the satellites. Leaving it buried was too huge a risk, even without the codes to go along. Someone would've cracked the software eventually, and then where would my country be? At the mercy of a foreign power? Yellow Comet? Blue Moon? We are not on the best of terms with either of them."

"But it wouldn't have been them," Sami growled. "It would've been us. Orange Star. We wouldn't have used them against you-"

Eagle slapped the desk, which startled Sami. "Do you believe that? Do you _really_ believe that, Sami? I know you. You're smart. You're damn smart. Is Orange Star as infallible as you've tricked yourself to think? Would your nation have simply taken this tremendous power – the ability to dictate the wheres and whys of space travel, of world communications – and squirreled it away? Issues promises to never use it?" He scoffed. "You know they wouldn't. It wouldn't have been up to Nell. It would've been up to those in your Central Office. And others that you never see. Faceless, suited men, men who have no names. Men who hide behind the cloak of government and are responsible for nothing and everything all at once."

Sami watched Eagle. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed tight. He was right, she knew. Absolutely right. It wouldn't have been about honor, or righteousness, or old alliances and sacred oaths. It would've been about politics. There would have been no such promises issued. Orange Star would've taken the killsats and threatened their use. Perhaps not directly. Would've used them as leverage in international relations, cemented the country's position at the detriment of others.

Slowly, her gaze shifted to the two objects again. "So many lives, Eagle. I've seen a lot of men die because of this. Was it worth it?"

He sighed. "This war… it wasn't the original intention."

"What do you mean?"

"Things didn't go according to plan. According to my country's plan." Now Eagle rested his elbows on his knees, one hand on his forehead. "Originally, a rogue Green Earth commander was going to claim Orange Star troops were acting belligerent, march into Calciki, and take it. Originally, we were going to get the software out before anyone knew what had happened. Then my government would have denounced the rogue commander alongside Orange Star. We would've maintained an aura of cooperation while achieving our goal. Then this war," he said, holding up a hand, "this war wouldn't have escalated like it did. Lives would've been spared. It would have all been done with only a handful dead, and relations hardly heated. Best for all parties."

Sami looked at Eagle. He was staring at the floor, fingers through his own hair. Exhausted was the only word to describe him. Tired and exhausted, physically and mentally.

Then it dawned on her. "You. You were going to be that commander. God, Eagle, you could've been killed!"

But he only tilted his head up to look back at her. "That was part of the plan too. Executed."

"But…" she wanted to ask _why_, if only for the sake of asking. But she already knew the answer. His country's wellbeing was more important than any one life, even if that life was the General of the Air Force. Even if that one life was his own.

Sami's throat tightened. She couldn't help it. "Then what…" her voice almost squeaked. "What happened to cause all this?"

"Yellow Comet. Those bastards," he snarled. Quickly, though, he regained his composure. "I don't mean Sonja. I mean the hardliners. I assume you know all about it, right?"

"Yes."

"They entered the conflict of their own accord. You know the reasons. Once that happened, we couldn't pull out. It would've looked suspicious, too timed. Orange Star wouldn't have been so quick to accept our version of the story. Yellow Comet's entry forced us into total war."

Sami let her arms sag. It was all connecting now. Not that any of it was truly up to her, but she was part of it all. She was just another a gear in the great machine, and a wrench had been thrown into its guts. Random events, things decided by men in suits, as Eagle had put it. All of it led her here, to this ward, to Eagle.

"So you wanted to end the war," she whispered.

"Yes. And your Major Kullins gave me the opportunity. Which has come about." Once again there was a faint trace of a smile on his face. "It's not much solace, but this war is done. Any minute my forces will be surrendering, and Calciki will be yours."

"Fuck that."

Sami whirled, bringing her rifle to bear.

Christoph was standing in the doorway. He wasn't wearing a helmet and his brown hair was disheveled. Otherwise he looked like the tanker he was – gray fatigues, boots, captain's patch on his shoulder. The bridge of his nose was folded, jaw set, lips tight.

And a pistol in his hands, pointing at Eagle.

Sami gawked. "Captain, what the _hell_ are you doing here? Who's commanding Kilo?"

Eagle leaned back, watching Christoph warily. "Sami, who is-"

"You shut your Goddamned mouth," Christoph snarled. Then his eyes flickered to Sami. "Kilo doesn't matter. They've won already. You heard it from him."

Sami's eyes shifted between the two men. "Captain, it's alright. I've got him. He's coming with us."

She saw Eagle glance her way.

"No he's not," Christoph asserted. His knuckles were white around the pistol's grip. The safety was off.

Sami frowned. "Then enlighten your superior officer as to _why_, Captain."

"Because I'm going to kill him."

Sami swallowed. "Christoph, holster your weapon. That's an order."

But Christoph shook his head. "Any other time, in any other place, I would listen to you, Sami. Any other time. But I can't trust your judgment, not now. Not considering your relationship with _him_."

She felt hot anger flush into her face. Not in embarrassment, but in outrage. "You _will_ lay down your sidearm, Captain." Sami steadied her sights on Christoph's hand. At this distance, she couldn't miss.

He didn't comply. He didn't say anything. His eyes just bored right into Eagle's, who was remaining as motionless as possible.

"My judgment is sound!" Sami snapped. "You did hear what he said, right? Eagle coming with us is the best course of action."

"No. I can't let him get away. I don't care if he's gonna be locked up in a cell for a hundred years. It isn't _right._ He's responsible for it. For all of it. I saw men _die_ because of him, Sami. _My_ men. Civilians too. I thought my friends dead. They still could be dead, I have no fucking clue!" His eyes narrowed on Eagle. "Because of him."

Sami's heart was in her throat. "You can't decide what's right and wrong, Christoph. That's up to the courts. This isn't justice."

"Fuck!" Christoph spat. "It's a load of bullshit, Sami. There_ is_ no justice, save what we create. Don't you see? That's the only justice that matters."

"No," she asserted.

"Yes!" he shouted, spittle flying. "Because if it doesn't then the world doesn't make sense! Because then men like him can go free!"

Sami swallowed. Her nose whistled. "You don't know Eagle like I do, Christoph. He's not a bad man. He's-"

"You think that matters to me? What you think of him? It doesn't. Because it's not right. I don't care." His finger curled. "It has to happen."

_Crack!_

Christoph jerked.

Sami spun. She saw a Green uniform behind Christoph. A soldier. He was holding a rifle, which now circled towards Sami.

The Green's rifle fired once. A molten hot poker buried itself into Sami's left shoulder. She yelped and squeezed her trigger.

Her own gun barked three times. The Green's body shuddered once, twice, and the third bullet caught him in the neck. He fell. Almost in slow motion, gun falling away, blood fountaining from his severed artery. It spilled on the tiles, stained the white walls. It kept pouring even as he hit the ground.

Then Sami breathed, and the world resumed.

Her arm was on fire. The front stock of her rifle fell from her left hand. Then she let the right handle go, sinking to her knees, weapon clattering to the floor beside her. She pushed away the urge to scream, bit her lip instead. Hard. So hard she drew blood.

"Augh…"

Then she opened her eyes.

Christoph lay on the ground. The back of his head was open pink. He still held his pistol in his left hand, both arms limp and angled funny at his sides. But he didn't move.

He was dead.

Sami's breath came in gasps. Her head throbbed. She tried to turn back to the room's center, but twisting her neck hurt her arm like fuck. Eventually, though, she managed.

Eagle's chair was empty.

She blinked away tears. The door behind where he'd been sitting was open. It was dark.

He was gone.

Slowly, carefully, Sami got her feet under her. Then she brought herself to what amounted to a standing position. Still hurt, but she ignored the pain. Instead she set her bad limb on her good forearm, and groped the back of her left shoulder with her right hand. She grimaced as her fingers touched an open wound through a hole in her suit. But that was what she wanted to find. A clean wound, straight through.

She coughed, spat blood onto the floor. The droplets landed in little red globules.

Then she stepped to the desk. The hard drive and memory stick were still there.

With her good hand, Sami picked up the stick and examined it. Then she set it aside, and took the hard disk.

Underneath was a piece of folded paper.


	21. A War Apart

_Two weeks later._

(())

"Ambassador," Nell said with the utmost enthusiasm, "I am very happy we were able to come to an agreement."

The Green Earth ambassador sitting across from Nell dipped his head just so. He was a handsome man. Severe, perhaps, but handsome. Far too serious for Nell's tastes, though. "Likewise, Commander." Then he turned to the man sitting next to Nell. "And you, Mr. Secretary."

"Absolutely. This is a great day."

The redhaired woman accompanying the ambassador extended her hand.

"I'm so glad this is done with," Jess said. "Maybe we can finally have some peace."

Nell gladly shook the offered gesture, beaming. "I hope so, General. I hope so."

Jess smiled back. She looked smart in her green uniform, buckled belt and tie. Very prim and proper. Or as proper as a tank commander could be.

The handshakes went around. Then the Green Earth side of the table – Jess, the ambassador, and two aides – gathered their things, pushed in their chairs, and rounded the table. Jess gave Nell a salute as she was leaving, and Nell returned it.

Orange Star's Secretary of Foreign Affairs followed them to shut the mahogany door after their departure. Then he turned back to the mahogany room. It was quite mahogany, actually. The table, chairs, even the lamps, they were all of the same reddish-brown hue with only slight variations.

The Secretary, a fat man with bristling gray mustaches and quite the ambassador's opposite, rubbed his hands together. An uneducated person might've summoned a stereotype and labeled him as a dishonest politician, but Nell knew he was about the most honest upper-level government official in Orange Star. "Well," he said, "I'm very glad that's up and done with. Echoing the good General's words, I dearly hope we see more than a few months of peace in our time."

Nell adjusted her violet cap, and then picked up her briefcase. Inside she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It _was _done. The conflict was officially over, and would be forever remembered in the annals of history as the Resting War. Not because of any general lack of bloodshed, no, but because the war began and ended on a Sunday.

Fighting was officially two weeks over. The casualties were still being counted. Given the two theatres in Omega Land and Cosmo Land, it was being estimated at fifteen hundred per side. Perhaps not many compared to the Black Hole conflicts, but for such a short space of time, very bloody. And very sudden. The suddenness had contributed to deaths on both sides. It was all unfortunate. More than unfortunate.

"It's not_ quite_ over, Mr. Secretary," she reminded him.

The man nodded while gathering his own briefcase and a rather fancy pen that he dropped in his suit's breast pocket. "Ah, true enough, Commander. But I don't suspect we'll have any real trouble with Yellow Comet, eh?" He chuckled, but it quickly faded. "I forget myself. That is not an issue to be taken lightly." He turned one old, wizened eye to Nell. "Tell me, Commander, what is your position on the issue of the Comets? I could always use friendly advice."

Nell set her hands on the back of a chair and drummed her fingers. Orange Star was still technically at war with the Empire. That country had relinquished control of Dorton City and withdrawn, but only because their forces were spread too thin to retain it and defend their Omega Land holdings at the same time. But the Comet nation was becoming increasingly polarized between hardliners and loyalists. The former still grudgingly declared their fight in Orange Star and the latter desired a peaceful settlement. The loyalists, of course, found their leadership in Sonja.

The analysts were expecting civil war.

"I will be frank, Mr. Secretary. If we are going to play mediator, then you only have one shot. The fighting will start soon, I imagine."

The Secretary's mustaches wiggled as he pondered this. "Yes. Well. I'll do my damndest, if you will excuse my language." He shook his head. "Still, as I said, more than just a few months of peace would be excellent."

Nell adjusted her briefcase shoulder strap. "We shall see, Mr. Secretary. We shall see."

(())

"He was a soldier, like any of us," Sami began.

"Just another soul brought into a war that no one wanted to fight. But when he was called upon, he did not hesitate. He did not shirk from his duties. He stood by each and every member of the armed forces that is standing here today.

Sami cleared her throat. "I…"

Then, for just a fraction of a second, she stopped.

It wasn't a lengthy speech. Besides, she hadn't known Christoph for very long. But during that short time she'd gotten to know him quite well.

It was hot, for an early September Saturday. Not humid, just hot. Sami was in full uniform, and it wasn't terribly comfortable. But no one would ever catch her complaining. Not even about her shoulder, which still hurt.

The dais stood in front of her, on the tiny erected podium that supported her polished shoes. Her short, typed work sat upon the dais' surface. Down to the podium's front was the coffin itself, wrapped in the orange and gold flag of the nation, resting on the green grass. It was flanked by two rows of honor guard, each man standing perfectly still, rifles parallel. There was not a blemish on their black caps, nor on their black uniforms. Max stood among them as the ranking officer, dwarfing each man. He, too, looked out of place in his uniform, his hat alone big enough for a horse.

Beyond them were the relatives and friends. An elderly couple, perhaps in their mid-sixties, assumedly the parents. One Sepp Lee, one Romana DuBois. A few others, close friends from outside the military.

And Sami, up front.

All of it was taking place under the shadow of a rather large oak.

After that fraction of a second, Sami swallowed, and continued.

"I worked with Captain Christoph John. He took orders, and he gave them, and never was either task done poorly by him. It was his command of Kilo Company that won the Battle of Loch Haven. It was his command, and his decision to put himself in the line of fire at Calciki, that allowed our armed forces to liberate that city.

"I am afraid I cannot repeat all the high words Captain Lee had to say about his good friend, for I did not know Captain Jorn as long as he. But I will say that I was proud to serve alongside him, as I am proud to serve alongside those who remain with us."

(())

The flag was presented to Christoph's parents.

Sami watched from a short distance as it happened. Sepp Lee and Romana DuBois folded the flag in precise measurements. Thirteen folds total. Then Lee took the flag and turned to the older couple to hand it to them. They didn't cry. But their expressions were somber. Perhaps they'd prepared for the possibility that their son would die in this war-torn world, as was wont to happen to soldiers.

Captain Lee stepped back and saluted.

Max gave a command to the honor guard. Sami didn't hear what it was. They all turned in tandem, clicked heels, and marched away from the small podium.

And that was it.

With the ceremony done, Lee abandoned the precise motions required by military funeral rites. But he remained respectful. He knelt next to the parents and removed his cap to give them what appeared to be consoling words. There was familiarity there. Sami didn't know if Lee knew them well or not. After some time he stood, replaced his cap, and saluted again. He faced DuBois and nodded.

Then his eyes found Sami, and he made a beeline for her.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he said as he approached, saluting.

She returned the salute. Even if it was done with her right hand, her left shoulder ached with the movement. The sling had been removed only yesterday. "Captain." She'd only met Sepp Lee the day following the Battle of Calciki, but she felt like she'd known him for a lot longer. Maybe because of his relationship to Christoph. "How are your new stripes?"

Sepp's curly hair was getting to be past regulation length, and spilled from under his cap. He lifted his right arm and looked at his insignia patch on his shoulder. "Fine, I s'pose. I don't really care either way."

"You'll come around, trust me. You deserved the promotion. I heard what you did for Kilo Company in Calciki. That took guts."

They stood there in silence for a moment. Sepp lowered his arm and looked up at the sky, like he was wondering at the heat. Sami looked with him. It was otherwise a perfect day. Blue sky, white clouds. Everything was green and blue and white. It was something peaceful to admire, finally, after all the fighting.

Sepp's gaze dropped. He looked down at the ground, scratched his cheek. Then he swept his cap off and ran a hand through his hair. "I lost two good friends in that stupid war, Colonel. My Captain and a fellow Lieutenant. I'm not in a good mood, no." Then he looked back at Sami. "I also heard things, Colonel."

Sami had been watching the oak tree, examining its crags and patterns from afar. Now her eyes settled on Lee again. "Things?"

"About Christoph. Mostly from his loaders, from Loch Haven and Calciki. Like something wasn't quite right 'bout him, ma'am. There were other things…" His pupils were a funny shade of gray. Sami noticed this as they fixed on her. "You were there, Colonel. What happened to him?"

Sami blew out a breath. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with a thumb and index finger. What was she going to tell him? The truth? Or some lie to make Christoph seem better than he was? They'd already done that with the ceremony. It was obligatory to pick out only the best qualities of the deceased. And none of what Sami had said was a lie. The unseemly parts had just been left out.

A deep part of her reflected on what had happened to Christoph. She wondered what had ultimately caused his breakdown, caused him to believe those things he said about Eagle. Loch Haven? Certainly the events there were a trigger. Seeing those civilians killed, seeing such destruction… those were not events to be taken lightly. By anyone.

Or had it been earlier? He'd held such… such _hatred_ for Black Hole. Utter, complete hatred. Sure, the Allied Nations had fought tooth and nail against Sturm and Von Bolt for years, but Sami didn't remember the hatred being so strong. The fact that Christoph had been forced to work with Black Hole must've interacted poorly with his psyche. She'd seen enough evidence to believe so.

_There is no justice… save what we create._

His words defined him.

"Yes," she said finally, looking off at nothing. "Yes, I was there. I was with him, from the very beginning. But I'll tell you, Captain, even though we went through the same experiences, saw the same things, Christoph wasn't… he wasn't fighting for the same reasons I was. We were a war apart from one another."

Sepp watched her for the longest time. He blinked.

Sami would've put her hands in her pockets, if she had them. "I'm sorry, Captain. I don't know what else to tell you."

Sepp ran his tongue through his gums. His Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed. Then, slowly, he replaced his cap, and assumed a standing military posture.

"Thank you, Colonel. I understand." He clicked his heels and saluted.

Sami returned it.

Then Sepp Lee pivoted and walked away.


	22. The Beginning

It was good whiskey. Strong. Just the way Sigfried would have liked it.

But it was also sipping whiskey, so Sepp sipped. He might've been a smoker, but he wasn't a heavy drinker.

The Withersburg bar named _King's_ was about as standard as they came. Sepp sat on a wooden stool, hunched over the wooden counter, looking at nothing but the wooden shelves with their many varieties of alcohol. Any bystander might have said he was a drunkard, or a man trying to wash away his sorrows with liquor, which were often one and the same.

But in reality, Sepp was just enjoying the whiskey, and not physically showing it.

He picked his elbows off the countertop and stuck his hands in a jacket pocket. He felt a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He picked the lighter, but left the box. Then he fished around in the other pocket, producing a fat cigar.

Just the kind Sigfried would have liked.

It was Sepp's tribute to the fallen Second Lieutenant. Though he was a smoker, he didn't often have cigars. Today, however, was certainly an exception.

As he flicked the lighter on and touched the merry flame to the cigar's end, the bar door opened, letting in the light of the day. A figure stepped in, someone in a gray jacket. The evenings were getting cooler, apparently.

The figure stood at the doorway for a moment. Then it walked towards the counter and stopped next to Sepp.

"Coffee, please. Black, no cream, no sugar."

Sepp looked up at the newcomer. "'Lo, Roma."

Roma settled into the stool next to Sepp's. Her hair was still bundled in a knot, and other than her street clothes she still exuded that aura of military properness. "Hello Sepp."

Sepp puffed his cigar. The taste was… interesting. Wasn't his favorite, but it would do. For Sigfried. "Did you come searching for me or do you just have bad luck?"

Roma set her forearms on the counter and smirked. "Both. How's the whiskey?"

"Strong. Good."

"Just the way Sigfried would've liked it?"

"Yep," Sepp said. He plucked his cigar from his lips and took another sip of the stuff.

The bartender set a steaming mug in front of Roma. She thanked him and cupped her hands around it.

"Coffee, huh?"

"Yep."

"Just the way Christoph would've liked it."

Roma laughed. "Christoph never liked coffee. He just drank it because it was there to drink. Besides, you have to have _something _to do on the front."

Sepp shrugged. "Whatever." He took another drag on his cigar, and blew colored smoke. "It's the least we can do for 'em."

"Drink and smoke? That it is."

They sat there in silence for a while. The bar wasn't much full. A couple patrons were having a conversation in one of the corner booths, but it was still early. And it was a Tuesday. So if Sepp had decided to drink himself to death, the bartender probably wouldn't have cared. It would've brought some cash in on a slow day.

But that wasn't why Sepp was there. No to lament. But to remember.

And, perhaps, to celebrate.

"So we're captains now, I guess," he remarked.

Roma blew out her cheeks. It was a strange response, coming from her. She was never one to shy away from a promotion. "Yes we are. Captain Lee. Has a ring, doesn't it?"

"I dunno," Sepp said. "I think Captain DuBois flows better off the tongue."

Roma laughed. Another unusual gesture from her. Sepp supposed she was starting to loosen up. "I hear," Roma began, "that we'll be getting our own companies soon. Imagine that. Each of us, in charge of a whole company." She glanced at her friend. "The word is that you'll be put in charge of Bravo."

Sepp snorted. "Bravo? Not much left of it." He waved the cigar at nothing. "Some promotion."

"Yes, but the name remains. And there were survivors. You. Your gunner. A handful of others. And my artillery men."

She had a point. Bravo wasn't completely gone. And even if it was, it could be rebuilt.

"And you?" he asked.

"Right now I'm being put in charge of the MPs helping rebuild central Calciki. I ship off tomorrow."

"Ouch. Sorry about that."

"Don't be," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. "It isn't fighting. I need a break from fighting. Creating something will be… different. Refreshing, even."

Sepp took his whiskey glass in his hand and sloshed around the caramel liquor within. "And after that?"

Roma shrugged. "We'll see. Bravo may need an artillery supplement. And_ they_ will need an officer." She nodded, lips pursed in thought. "I could forward my resume."

Sepp glanced at her. Then back to his whiskey, and the glowing butt of his cigar. "That," he said, a grin forming on his lips, "would be fine."

(())

Apparently, the army's protocol for treating a former prisoner of war, after ensuring everything about him or her was medically sound, was to give leave. It didn't make too much sense to Max. As a POW he'd been on a leave of sorts. The Green fellows had fed him, kept him safe, let him take frequent strolls outside…

_Don't argue it, Max. Just smile and nod._

He was smiling, sure. Why would anyone on a beach _not_ be smiling? And he might as well help revive the Dorton City tourist industry. The Comets might've been gone, but people were still trying to pick up their lives and, even for early September, the number of beachgoers was low.

So Max had virtually a fifty foot radius of sand to himself.

He was lying on a beach towel, arms behind his head, eyes half-closed behind a pair of sunglasses. His shirt was off but not because he wanted a tan. Just because, why not? He was on a beach, you didn't need a reason on a beach. In front of him the Trepidial Sea stretched away into blue nothingness, light waves flowing ever beachward. Geography told Max there was another shore, but you couldn't see it from here.

He cracked his neck one way, removing his left hand and feeling in the sand to his side. His knuckles bumped into his cooler, fingers worked way up and found the lid. Then he flipped it off to dig around the ice inside and find a can of soda.

Max sat up. He pulled the tab and took a sip. Refreshing. Bubbly. Sweet. Soda was one thing he didn't have as a POW, and he meant to make up for the lost time.

Then, he paused and looked up at the sky again. His grin faded. "To you, Christoph," he said, taking another gulp. Wasn't champagne but he knew Christoph wouldn't have cared.

Now, though, wasn't the time to think about it. The funeral was done and past. Max would retain the Captain in his memories, as was custom among military types. He took another sip, and then dug a small hole in the sand to keep the can upright. After that he reached down to his feet – which was a task, since his muscles didn't afford him flexibility – and snatched up his cell phone.

A few buttons later and it was ringing at his ear.

A click. "Hello?"

"Sami!" Max boomed. A couple seagulls down the beach flew off. "It's Max, how you doing?"

He heard a laugh from the other end of the line. "Hey, Max. I'm fine. You enjoying your time off?"

"Am I?" he asked as though Sami's question was ridiculous. Which it was. "Sure as hell am! I'm in Dorton City, soaking up the rays."

"How's the weather there?"

Max looked up. The sky was cloudless, sun beating down at something in the high nineties. "Perfect. I love it." Max dug his feet in to the sand, and his foot tapped a hard object. A shell. He plucked it from the granules and tossed it at the sea. "Listen, Sami, I've got a proposition for you."

A pause. "I'm listening."

"What say you, me, and Andy get together some time soon. Like, "this week" soon. You guys could come here, if you wanted, the weather's supposed to stay awesome. Or we could go somewhere else. Do anything. I dunno. Cosmo, Macro, doesn't matter. It's been a while since we've all been best buds, like we were back in the day."

Sami laughed, that good friend's laugh. "Andy's still all the way back in Serlin, you know."

"So? He can get here in a couple days. Or we could hop on a plane and go kidnap him from Nell. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

Another laugh, and a sigh. "That would be great, Max. Unfortunately I'm busy this week. Within the month, though, I agree. We should do something."

Max smirked. Wasn't this week, but he would take it. "Alright, alright. I understand. I have some personal leave stashed away, beyond what the army gave me, so any time works. Do you want to give Andy a ring, or should I?

"If you could, that would be great."

"Okay, will do. But you give me a call when you've got an idea of when you're free, alright?"

"Okay Max. I promise. I'll talk to you later."

"Right. Peace."

(())

_Peace._

Sami closed her cell phone and slipped it into her pocket.

The weather was nice, but considering she was on the other side of the continent from Max, her weather was probably different from his.

It was closer to morning, too. Maybe in the low sixties. The sky was a sort of light blue, not the straight blue that most people thought of as a perfect day. But the color, Sami was alright with it. It held its own beauty.

Her brown boots scooted over the rough trail as she climbed a hill. Her green khakis were spotted with dirt, but she didn't care. Dirt never stopped her from taking a hike. She wore a windbreaker over her white top, headband under her hair. On her back was a small rucksack, straps around her shoulders.

It all felt right.

She stepped from the trail, clambered onto a boulder, stood up straight, and looked around.

The dirt path wound along the edge of a forest and up a gentle slope. The trees were pines, the forest floor covered in layers of dead, brown needles from seasons before. She heard a bubbling stream somewhere nearby but hadn't spotted it yet. To the trail's left side, the open side, the hill was swathed in high grass that swayed in an unfelt breeze.

Other than the trail itself, there were no signs of humanity.

Sami jumped down from her boulder and resumed her trudge up the path. As she walked she worked her left arm. Her shoulder ached, but the aching was getting better every day. Of course, the scar just below her collar bone would be there for life, but that didn't matter.

Birds chirped. The stream's bubbling receded behind her, and now the breeze took its place. There were no cars, no distant highways, no planes overhead, no trains chugging through the wilderness. There were no crowds, no stores, no houses and no high-rises.

Most importantly, there were no tanks and no guns.

Sami was miles out from the nearest village, having left in the early morning hours. And yet she didn't feel tired. Fruit and water, that was all she had packed to eat, and it was all she needed. There was no need to press for time. She had all the time in the world. No engagements, no issues. No need to worry about leave hours anymore.

Before she'd left Withersburg, and after Christoph's burial, Sami had taken an afternoon to lock herself in an office with a laptop and a printer. Just a half a day, that was all she needed. She'd typed up a letter. Short, to the point. A letter addressed directly to Commander-in-Chief Nell of the Orange Star Armed Forces, because she was the only one who would understand.

Sami had typed that letter of resignation from her position as Lieutenant Colonel of the OSA, and printed it. Just to see if she had it in her. Just to see if she could.

Then she'd torn it up.

The hill's crest was up ahead. A part of her tried to calculate the distance, but she ignored it. There was no reason to. There were no measurements needed. The top of the hill was there, and that was all there was to it. Once she reached the hill's apex Sami stopped, arched her back, and tilted her head left and right. She looked over the scene before her. Now the hill rolled down, trail still winding. Way off in the distance, she could see the white-topped peaks of a mountain range. It looked half a world away.

Then, Sami slipped her hand into the pocket of her windbreaker. Her fingers returned around the small, folded paper Eagle had left in Calciki. The paper he had left under the hard drive and memory stick.

The same objects she had destroyed after he left. Put a bullet in the drive and smashed the stick under her boot.

She opened the paper. Written on it was a set of coordinates.

She looked west, and smiled.

On the hill's gradual downslope, there was a small cabin. "Cabin" wasn't really the right word, because it had relatively modern siding and framework. It had a brick chimney too. There was even a satellite dish fixed to the top. It was tiny, quaint; a secret from the world only known to a few people.

Two people, in fact.

(())

Tanner flicked his bathroom light on.

A small room. Functional. It didn't need to be any larger. Tanner stepped to the sink and opened the mirror cabinet above. The shelves within held many medications and toiletries. He rummaged between them, pushed aside a box of allergy drugs and a bottle of hair dye, and found what he was looking for. Aspirin.

He popped the cap open and shook two white tablets out. Then he replaced the aspirin and shut the cabinet.

A face stared at him through the medium of the mirror. An expressionless face, a face that said nothing and betrayed less. A face with dark gray eyes and graying eyebrows, a face marked by age and experience.

Tanner glanced down and picked up a small cup from the sink's rim. He filled it under the tap. Then he threw the pills into his mouth and drank.

The cup was returned, and as Tanner left he flicked the light switch off.

He passed through his café. The overhead lamps were on, by virtue of the fact that it was still early morning. Through the façade panes he saw the sun just creeping over the horizon, rising to spill its light on the buildings and residents of Loch Haven.

Or, what was left of them.

Tanner passed by the counter and picked up a coffee tin from its surface. Then he made for the door, the bell tinkling as he passed through.

On the sidewalk outside, he had set up a white folding table. On it there were three pots of coffee, their cables running down one of the table's legs and plugged into an orange, multi-socket extension cord. The cord ran back through his café door. Also on the table were stacks of Styrofoam cups, as well as sugar and milk. Tanner had made sure he had milk this time.

Despite the early morning hour, the people of Loch Haven were milling about, down the sidewalks, across the roads, in and out of buildings that had been deemed safe. They carried boxes and bags, or they were watching children, or they were performing repairs on the many destroyed residencies of the town. Directly across the street, a group of men was hauling a ruined sofa from an office building, while two more people passed pieces of wooden and concrete rubble through a window. The man receiving the pieces threw them into a pile of trash.

Uproad to the left, someone had volunteered the services of their truck and was organizing the towing of smashed and burned cars. A couple military types were among them, apparently trying to decide what to do about the rather out-of-place Oberon sitting shattered in the middle of the road.

Tanner looked to the right. There was a mix of adults and children planting new trees and bushes on the wayside. There were also two people coming up the sidewalk. The first was a shorter man in a plaid shirt and jeans. He was accompanied by a woman wearing a worn T-shirt, its fabric spotted with various colors, rather like she'd been painting. They chatted between themselves for a while, until they neared Tanner.

"I heard there was coffee," the man said as they approached.

Tanner nodded. "Yes. Please help yourself." He gestured to the items at the table's end. "There is milk and sugar there. I have two pots of regular and one of decaf."

"I think I'll take regular. God knows we need the caffeine." The man took the handle of the corresponding pot and, while his friend held two cups, poured a steaming hot batch into each.

When they were full, the woman set them down and got two more. "We've been sent on a coffee run," she explained. "Mr. Yulwa's roof caved in, and his neighbors feel they need a little pick-me-up before they start hauling out the heavy bits."

Tanner dipped his head. "I'm glad I can be of service. It's the least I can do for our community."

As the man finished with the next cups, he replaced the pot and picked up the original pair. "Always been a fan of your coffee, Mr. Tanner. Nice little business you have." He took a sip of one. "Hard to believe you only moved here a month and a half ago. Your café feels as homey as any."

"You are too kind. If you need anything else, just ask."

The woman smiled. "Thank you. The same goes for you." Then they turned away and resumed whatever conversation they'd been engaged in before.

Tanner watched them go. Supplying coffee truly was the least he could do. He supposed he was in good enough shape to help with the heavy lifting, and if someone asked he would comply, but right now he felt… odd. At peace, perhaps. He'd forgotten what peace was like, but maybe this was it.

Peace for everyone. The war was over. He'd read the casualty list online; those who were confirmed casualties, anyway. When he'd seen Christoph Jorn's name, something changed within him. Perhaps it was sadness that he'd felt. But later he'd found a short article in Loch Haven's local newspaper concerning the Captain, and Tanner's spirits had been lifted. Christoph Jorn was given credit for saving the town, and for guiding the main thrust of the assault that seized Calciki. It was because of his bravery and his quick-witted command that Orange Star was able to retake it. He hoped his talk with the officer had been beneficial. It was, after all, the least he could've done…

Someone giggled to his left, breaking into his thoughts. A high-pitched giggle. "Look at you! Being _nice_ to people? When did that start?"

Tanner turned. Leaning against the wall was a small girl, her hair frizzy beyond what was considered normal. Black top, black pants, and a trench coat. She was quite out of place in the little town. And she was grinning.

Tanner blinked. To be honest, he was surprised. But, like always, he didn't show it. "Lash," he stated simply.

"Duh!" Lash ambled over, hands in the pockets of her coat, and stood next to him. "It took me forever to find you. You're a hard man to track, ya know?"

Tanner looked up, over her head of hair. "That was my intention."

"Why?" Lash turned and leaned against the table. Tanner might've been worried if she wasn't so light.

"I wanted to sever my connections with my old life." His gaze swept the road. "This is my home now. I have started anew."

Lash crossed her arms and pouted. "Phooey. That's no fun." She looked over her shoulder and stuck her finger in the sugar pot, picking out a cube and popping it into her mouth. "Why would you want to do that?"

Tanner looked down at her. Lash looked back, almost a true expression of innocence on her face. Almost. "It seemed… right."

"Right, huh?" She procured another sugar cube. "I guess. Sure. If that's what floats your boat."

He frowned, setting his fingers on the table top. "I heard what you did, Lash. Do you not consider your actions to be right as well?"

"What, you mean helping Orange Star?" She played with the cube between her lips.

"Yes."

She shrugged. "I guess. Same could be said if I'd helped the Greenies."

"That would have been different. Green Earth attacked first."

Lash giggled. "So that makes them the bad guys? Boy, this new life has got your head all funny." She flapped the overly long sleeves of her coat. "Me, I dunno. I might accept the Oranges' deal to go work with their R&D. What do you think, Mr. Morals?" she asked, poking Tanner in the arm. "Is that _right?_"

Tanner said nothing, and he looked away, out at nothing. Maybe he was looking between the buildings at the green beyond, but even he wasn't sure. Right? Wrong? He supposed in war, right and wrong did not factor into things. But he was not at war anymore. He had given up war, and was now at peace. With the world. With himself. That was right, he knew it was. Because it _felt_ right, not because someone told him, or because some ancient philosopher said it a thousand years ago. Because he knew, instinctively, that it was the case.

So as the sun rose in the east, he watched its colors spill over the horizon and play with the world below. It was a new day, a new dawn, a new chance for everyone. It was warm. And, for the first time in many years, Hawke smiled.


	23. Author's Notes and FAQ

Wow! Here we are, at the end of my tale. It's been quite a while since I began work on _A War Apart. _The first chapter was originally posted on December 27th of 2009, and now, 367 days later, I have finished the story. According to my processor, _A War Apart _clocks in at 134,311 words and 248 pages. I'm fine with calling it 134,000. This is, by a huge margin, the longest work I have ever finished, fiction and non-fiction included. When I began I never imagined how huge this would grow.

I would first like to thank those who read the story on FanFiction. Even if you haven't posted a review, or subscribed, or put me on author alert, I must thank you (though authors do love to hear comments). The fact that you've come this far means you have enjoyed what I present, and it is much appreciated.

I also want to thank the forum members of Advance Wars Net and Wars Central who have given me support and expressed their interest. You guys are the best. Your continued remarks, praise, and your work to catch my typos and mistakes (you know who you are, and I really do appreciate it), has strengthened this work.

And, finally, to my girlfriend, who didn't laugh and only supported me when I admitted I was writing fanfiction. I love you.

What follows is a series of FAQ questions regarding the development of _A War Apart_ and my own experiences as an author. Please note that **THESE QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS CONTAIN SPOILERS**, so if you have just clicked the last chapter for the sake of doing it, shame on you.

Additionally, if anyone has further questions they wish to ask, feel free to drop me a message and, if appropriate, I'll update this section with answers at a later time.

Regards,

C.E.E.

**Q: How did **_**A War Apart**_** originate?**

A: It began, strangely enough, with chapter four. The very first piece I wrote was the section where Christoph and Sami are bounding through the woods, fleeing Green Earth. It was supposed to be a one-shot, and I wasn't even sure if I was going to post it. That original version was about war, fear, and terror, and was written from the point of view of a soldier in the middle of it all. I had hardly defined Christoph as a character at that point – he was just someone I'd created to fill a gap.

Later, I got to thinking. A crazy notion germinated that _I liked to write._ Sure, I'd written before (check my FictionPress account, named below), but I felt like I could go somewhere with this new piece. And I loved Advance Wars. So it snowballed. Furthermore, I personally enjoy black-and-gray morality as a writing style, rather than black-and-white, so this gave me the opportunity to put a darker, more realistic tinge on the otherwise happy and cartoony Wars World and its denizens.

That was one of my major goals, by the way: to take Advance Wars and make it _real_. To make the interactions _real_, to make the events _real_, to make the characters _real_. I wanted to inject realism into everything about it. In fact, it was my most important goal. If I succeeded in doing that, then I believe I am a decent author, or at least one who can keep his shit together.

**Q: Where did Christoph, Sepp, and all your original characters come from?**

A: As mentioned, Christoph began with the one-chapter precursor to _A War Apart_. But that was Christoph the Name, not Christoph the Person. He developed as a character later, but before I actually got around to writing chapter one. He started simply as an officer who hated Black Hole, and through my words I let him grow from there. He became much more and much deeper, with strengths and flaws. I wanted to see him develop, and so he did.

Sepp's likeness and personality (perhaps stretched a bit) is based on one of my good friends. Carefree, sarcastic, but a good man. Smart as hell. He has a duty, and he'll do it, but he won't necessarily enjoy it.

As minor characters, Roma and Sigfried came about first as simple companions to Christoph (actually Sepp began that way too, but around the time he got his own point of view was when I decided to flesh him out). Then they shifted to companions for Sepp. Christoph had Sami, Jake, and Rachel to buddy with, so Roma and Sigfried gravitated towards Sepp Lee. In order to develop a character, one needs other characters to accompany them, and it was just convenient. But the lieutenant trio worked very well, in my mind.

There is another, darker reason for why I created the characters I did. To kill them. I knew from the very beginning that people were going to die. I knew from about chapter three that Christoph was going to die. That was when I made the decision to have him descend into the broken, shattered, and ultimately remade man that he became. He was remade, yes, but into someone else, as Sami remarked.

**Q: And the Advance Wars characters? How did you make your decisions to include them and narrate them?**

A: Sami was a given. Everyone likes her. She's one of the few AW characters who actually experiences some development in the games, and is the only one who has a (heavily implied) romance with another character. I won't say she was easy to write, but I didn't have to shoehorn her emotional development and feelings, or the way she spoke and acted. The dynamic of her relationship to Eagle provided me with a lot to work with, so I took it and ran.

I decided to offer Nell's point of view as a contrast to the grunts in the thick of the fighting. She's removed from the bloodshed and the conflict, but at the same time she is acutely aware of it all. She isn't a faceless politician: she's Nell! She also has a personality. She provides a view into the world of strategic command, which would have otherwise been hidden to the reader. The soldiers might experience the bulk of the conflict, but without a larger context the war would have quickly become superficial. Nell's role was to impress upon the reader that, yes, the events of the story were very real.

Max was the most challenging. I devoted to him the fewest chapters and shortest sections. He only had one environment throughout ninety-nine percent of the story, anyway. But he also contrasts with Sami, Christoph, and Sepp as a man stuck in a position where he cannot fulfill his duties. He takes it well enough, but there's some frustration there. His role becomes one of communicating to the reader the nature of the enemy, and his eyes open up a keyhole view into Eagle's mind.

**Q: Are there themes in the story?**

A: Oh yea, all over the place. They're not hidden. If you can't find them then you're looking too hard.

**Q: What were the biggest challenges in writing **_**A War Apart?**_

A: There were several.

The first was keeping up the will to write. During the spring of 2010 I was studying abroad in Beijing. The minor culture shock I experienced and strange, new environment pretty much disconnected me from everything I had been doing in the States (except Civilization 4: I got reeeally good at Civ 4 in China). There was so much to do and see, and the classes were so hard, that I really could not keep writing while I was there. I got maybe four pages done total. When I returned I found my spark again and continued, but then Starcraft 2 landed at the end of the summer, and I'd been waiting for it for twelve years so I couldn't exactly pass it up. After that, I went through the busiest school semester I'd ever had. It's my senior year and there were a lot of things that had to be done. But during this past winter break I found time and resolved to complete the story. So I did.

In terms of the actual writing there were definitely obstacles to overcome. Keeping the narrative fresh when confined to certain environments – like a tank's cabin – was often difficult. If I write the word "viewer" or "extension" one more time I might cry. The point of view from such a narrow physical setting is limited. Tanks are not limber, and they are not interesting beyond the fact that they're sixty ton machines with a huge gun (which is cool in and of itself, but that's beside the point). The story has to come through the characters inside that tank. It has to come from what they do with it.

Honestly, the battles were the hardest thing to write. You might think them easy, but no, when sitting behind the computer they can be _boring_. You have to pack as much detail and action into a single chapter or section, which can quickly become tedious. Character interactions were much more fun to imagine and set to words.

Retaining military accuracy was something that required a bit of work too. I did layman's research (read: Wikipedia and Google Images) to learn pretty much everything I know about armed forces worldwide. Everything else came from different pieces of fiction I have read, which will be listed below. I have the United States Army rank structure memorized because of the research I did for _A War Apart._ Of course, I took a few liberties here and there, so don't expect everything to be 100% accurate. Or even 70%. If you use this story as a bibliographic source in your next report, do not point fingers at me when you get an F.

Finally, I stumbled across one last challenge when I was wrapping it all up. Death. It's harder to narrate then you think. Death is more than just killing a character and removing him from the story. You really have to show what impact that death has on the rest of the characters. You have to make it real. With Christoph, it took some narration: the abrupt ending to Chapter 20, and the military burial in chapter 21, as well as the reactions of Sepp and Roma. In the case of other characters, like Kanbei, it was more about the politics. What were the _political_ results of his death? Since he wasn't a main character, and not even a minor character, how was I going to ensure his absence was felt in the story? Those were the questions I had to answer.

**Q: What were your favorite elements of writing **_**A War Apart?**_

A: Narrating Sami, definitely. She's strong, brave, compelling, and interesting. She's got her strengths and her flaws. Her actions and lines just flowed.

Writing the development of Christoph was equally entertaining. He's a hurt soul by the end, and I got to see firsthand how he got there. How he lived, how he died. I don't enjoy seeing people die, of course, but the development is the compelling part. Sami might've been fun, but she's a preexisting character. Christoph was entirely my own creation.

And the "big reveals" are just as fun for authors to write them as they are for fans to read them, by the way.

**Q:** **So, in general fiction terms, what are your biggest influences and favorite authors?**

A: Joe Abercrombie. He is my number 1. Before him I didn't read fantasy, and now I'm hooked. His epic trilogy, _The First Law_, opened me up to black-and-gray morality. That and he does a phenomenal job of creating interesting characters. The people he molds are incredibly real and deep. Seriously, as long as you don't mind that nearly every one of his characters is, in some way or another, an asshole, read Abercrombie.

Stephen Baxter is a well-known author in the science fiction community. He writes hard sci-fi, which is about the only sci-fi I read. Great author, wonderful stories that deal with the big issues of humanity and realism out the ear. If you read or watch sci-fi and chafe every time someone survives a black hole or travels through time, read Baxter.

Beyond them, I've read a wide variety of authors. Tom Clancy's _Red Storm Rising_ and Harold Coyle's _Team Yankee_ are both stories about a hypothetical, conventional Third World War between NATO and the USSR. Much of the behavior and functioning of certain weapons and military organizations in _A War Apart _comes from their books. The video game _World in Conflict_ is based around that same idea of NATO vs. Warsaw, minus ICBMs, and it provided me with much inspiration. Great game, pick it up if you like strategy.

It's not really related but I've started on Terry Pratchett's Discworld stuff. Also great. Hilarious too.

**Q:** **Now that you're done, what are your plans for the future?**

A: Am I going to keep writing? Yes. I'm hooked.

I currently have ideas and a framework for a fantasy story. Dark, gritty fantasy, like that guy Abercrombie I was talking about. There's some written, but it's just primer stuff. My goal for that story? Follow in Joe Abercrombie's footsteps and bloodily subvert every fantasy trope I can get my hands on.

My FictionPress tag is **CEE2027**. Check me out. I have an old short story posted, so feel free to read it. Exactly when I begin the new fantasy story is up in the air. Don't hold your breath, but don't give up either. It _will_ happen. And this coming semester is a lot freer than the last, so it could be sooner than you think. It could be sooner than _I_ think.

**Q: What about in Wars World? Are you going to come back to it?**

A: I'll be honest, I haven't decided. _A War Apart_ is a self-contained story, and there are no loose ends to be tied up (if you think there are, go ahead and imply; the answers are not supposed to be elusive). If I did come back, it would be to the new, post-DS world I have created, barring the release of a new Wars World game.

But, that being said, it could happen. I do have ideas floating around, and some even on paper. If I do another Advance Wars piece, it will definitely be from a different country's point of view, with Nintendo characters and new ones alike. I would also probably take a different route and avoid the straight-up combat (certainly of the armored sort). Maybe political intrigue, maybe air force, maybe navy, who can say?

Just remember what Nell said: there will be civil war in Yellow Comet…


End file.
